← catalogue

Penshurst Castle in the Time of Sir Philip Sidney

by Emma Marshall · English · Gutenberg #28616 · 454,170 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Penshurst Castle in the Time of Sir Philip Sidney
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Penshurst Castle in the Time of Sir Philip Sidney

Author: Emma Marshall


        
Release date: April 26, 2009 [eBook #28616]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28616

Credits: Produced by Paul Dring, Delphine Lettau, and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PENSHURST CASTLE IN THE TIME OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY ***




Produced by Paul Dring, Delphine Lettau, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net










PENSHURST CASTLE




[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TOWER, PENSHURST CASTLE.]




  PENSHURST CASTLE

  _IN THE TIME OF_

  SIR PHILIP SIDNEY


  BY

  EMMA MARSHALL

  _Author of 'Under Salisbury Spire,' 'Winchester Meads,' etc._


  'A right man-like man, such as Nature, often erring,
  yet shows sometimes she fain would make.'--Sir Philip Sidney.


  LONDON

  SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED

  ESSEX STREET, STRAND

  1894




_PREFACE_


For the incidents in the life of Sir Philip Sidney, who is the central
figure in this story of 'the spacious times of great Elizabeth,' I am
indebted to Mr H. R. Fox Bourne's interesting and exhaustive Memoir of this
noble knight and Christian gentleman.

In his short life of thirty-one years are crowded achievements as scholar,
poet, statesman and soldier, which find perhaps few, if indeed any equal,
in the records of history; a few only of these chosen from among many
appear in the following pages. The characters of Mary Gifford and her
sister, and the two brothers, Humphrey and George Ratcliffe, are wholly
imaginary.

The books which have been consulted for the poetry of Sir Philip Sidney and
the times in which he lived are--Vol. I. of _An English Garner;_ M.
Jusserand's _Roman du Temps de Shakespere,_ and a very interesting essay on
Sir Philip Sidney and his works, published in Cambridge in 1858.

  WOODSIDE, LEIGH WOODS,
    CLIFTON, _October_ 5, 1893.




  _CONTENTS_


  BOOK I.

                                                          PAGE

     I. THE SISTERS,                                         1

    II. IN THE PARK,                                        17

   III. A STRANGE MEETING,                                  35

    IV. THE HAWK AND THE BIRD,                              60

     V. RESISTANCE,                                         82

    VI. THREE FRIENDS,                                     101

   VII. WHITSUNTIDE, 1581,                                 121

  VIII. DEFEAT,                                            146

    IX. ACROSS THE FORD,                                   171


  BOOK II.

     X. AT WILTON,                                         207

    XI. LUMEN FAMILIÆ SUÆ,                                 223

   XII. FIRE AND SWORD,                                    243

  XIII. RESTORED,                                          258

   XIV. WHAT RIGHT?                                        276

    XV. THE PASSING OF PHILIP,                             296

   XVI. FOUR YEARS LATER--1590,                            311




  _LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_


  THE ENTRANCE TOWER, PENSHURST CASTLE,         _Frontispiece_

                                                          PAGE

  PENSHURST CHURCH AND CASTLE,                               4

  THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST,                                 64

  PENSHURST CASTLE, FROM THE PARK,                          70

  OLD HOUSES BY THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST,                  130

  THE TILT YARD, WHITEHALL,                                148

  THE GREAT HALL, PENSHURST CASTLE,                        224

  THE BARON'S COURT, PENSHURST CASTLE,                     288




BOOK I.


    'What man is he that boasts of fleshly might,
     And vaine assurance of mortality;
     Which, all so soone as it doth come to fight
     Against spirituall foes, yields by and by:
     Or from the field most cowardly doth fly?
     No, let the man ascribe it to his skill,
     That thorough grace hath gained victory.
     If any strength we have, it is to ill;
     But all the good is God's, both power and will.'

    _The Faery Queene_, Book I. Canto 10.




Penshurst Castle




CHAPTER I

THE SISTERS

    'She was right faire and fresh as morning rose,
     But somewhat sad and solemne eke in sight,
     As if some pensive thought constrained her gentle spright.'

    SPENSER.


1581.--'There is time yet ere sunset; let me, I pray you, go down to the
lych gate with the wheaten cake for Goody Salter.'

'Nay, Lucy; methinks there are reasons for your desire to go down to the
village weightier than the wheaten cake you would fain carry with you. Rest
quietly at home; it may be Humphrey will be coming to let us know if Mr
Sidney has arrived at Penshurst. Why such haste, little sister?'

'Because I do covet a place where I can witness the grand tourney at
Whitehall. It may suit your mood, Mary, to live always on this hilltop,
with naught to see and naught to do; with no company but a cross-grained
stepmother, and the cows and sheep. I am sick of it. Even a run down to the
village is a change. Yes, I am going; one hour, and I will be back.'

Mary Gifford laid a detaining hand on her young sister's shoulder.

'Have a care, dear child, nor let your wild fancies run away with your
discretion. Am I not one who has a right to caution you? I who have come
back as a widow to my old home, bereft and lonely.'

'Because you married a bad man, and rued the day, it is no reason that I
should do the same. Trust me, good sister. I may be young, but I have my
wits about me, and no soft speeches catch me in a net.'

The elder sister's beautiful face, always grave and mournful in its
earnestness, grew even more mournful than was its wont, as she looked down
into her sister's lovely eyes, and kissed her forehead.

'Child, I pray God to keep you safe; but the net you speak of is not spread
in the sight of any bird, and it is captured all unawares.'

Lucy's answer was to return her sister's kiss with a quick, warm embrace,
and then she was off, with the basket on her arm, and her glad, young voice
ringing out,--

'Good-bye! good-bye! I'll be back in an hour.'

Mary Gifford stood under the old stone porch, watching the light figure as
it tripped away, and then was turning into the house again, when a sharp
voice she knew too well called,--

'Lucy! Lucy! Where's that hussy? There's two pails of milk to set for cream
in the pans, and the cakes are scorching before the fire. Lucy! Where's
Lucy?'

Mary Gifford did not reply to the question, but said,--

'I will go to the dairy, mother, and see to the milk.'

'And take your boy with ye, I'll warrant, who will be up to mischief. No,
no; it's Lucy's work, and she shall do it. It will be bedtime before we
know it, for the sun is going down. Lucy!'

This time a child's voice was heard, as little feet pattered along the
terrace outside Ford Manor.

'Aunt Lou is gone,' the child said. 'I saw her running down the hill.'

'Is she? She shall repent it, then, gadding off like that. More shame to
you,' Mrs Forrester said wrathfully, 'to let her go, Mary, and cheat me by
not telling me the truth. You want the child to go to ruin as you did
yourself, I suppose.'

Mary Gifford's face flushed crimson, as she said,--

'It ill becomes my father's wife to taunt his daughter, when he is not here
to defend her. Come with me, Ambrose, nor stay to listen to more hard
words.'

But the child doubled his small fists, and said, approaching his
grandmother,--

'I'll beat you. I'll kill you if you make mother cry! I will, you--'

'Hush, my little son,' Mary said, drawing the boy away. 'It is near thy
bedtime. Come with me; nor forget thy manners if other folk are not mindful
of theirs.'

The tears of mingled sorrow and anger were coursing each other down Mary
Gifford's face, but she wiped them hastily away, and, putting her arm round
the child, she led him up the narrow stairs leading from the large kitchen
to the room above, where she sat down, with Ambrose clasped close to her
heart, by the square bay window, which was flung open on this lovely April
evening.

Ford Manor stood on the slope of the hill, commanding a view of the meadows
stretching down to the valley, where the home of the Sidneys and the tower
of the old church could be seen amongst the trees, now golden in the
brilliant western sunshine of the spring evening. Perhaps there can
scarcely be found a more enchanting prospect than that on which Mary
Gifford looked, as she sat with her boy clasped in her arms, her heart,
which had been pierced with many sorrows, still smarting with the sharp
thrust her stepmother had given her.

[Illustration: PENSHURST CHURCH AND CASTLE.]

That young sister whom she loved so passionately, about whom, in her gay
thoughtless youth, she was so anxious, whom she was ever longing to see
safe under the shelter of a good man's love--it was hard that her boy
should hear such words from those pitiless lips--'lead her to
ruin!'--when her one desire was to shield her from all contamination of the
evil world, of which she had herself had such bitter experience.

Little Ambrose was tired, after a day of incessant running hither and
thither, and lay quiet with his head on his mother's breast, in that
blissful state of contentment to find himself there, which gives the thrill
of deepest joy to a mother's heart.

Ambrose was six years old, and a fair and even beautiful child. The stiff,
ugly dress of the time, could not quite hide the symmetry of his rounded
limbs, and the large ruff, now much crumpled after the day's wear, set off
to advantage the round chin which rested on it and the rosy lips, which had
just parted with a smile, as Mary said,--

'Is my boy sleepy?'

'No, mother; don't put me a-bed yet'

Mary was not unwilling to comply with the request, and so they sat on, the
boy's red-gold curls making a gleam of brightness on the sombre black
garments of widowhood which Mary still wore.

Presently the boy said,--

'When I'm a man, will Mr Philip Sidney let me be his esquire? Aunt Lou says
p'raps he will, if you ask him.'

'My boy will not be a man for many a year yet,' Mary said, pressing the
child closer. 'And he would not leave his mother even for Mr Philip
Sidney.'

Ambrose sat upright, and said,--

'I would come back to you, as Humphrey Ratcliffe comes back to his mother,
but I'd like to ride off with Mr Sidney when I am a man.'

'Yes, yes, my boy, all in good time.'

'And I must learn to ride and wrestle, and--oh! a hundred things. I wish to
be a man like Mr Philip Sidney.'

'May you ever be as good, noble, and learned, my son; but come, the sun is
gone to bed, and Ambrose must go too.'

Then, with loving hands, she prepared her child for his bed, smoothing back
the shining hair from the pure white brow, where the blue veins were
clearly traced, and Ambrose knelt at her knee and repeated his little
prayer, adding, with childlike simplicity, after the Amen,--

'Pray, God, make me a good man, like Mr Philip Sidney.'

While Mary Gifford and little Ambrose were thus together in the upper
chamber of Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester had reached the old timbered house by
the lych gate of Penshurst Church, and had obtained admission at Goody
Salter's door, and put the wheaten cake and two eggs on the little rickety
table which stood against the wall in the dark, low room. The old woman's
thanks were not very profuse, hers was by no means a grateful disposition,
and, perhaps, there was no great inducement for Lucy to prolong her visit.
However that might be, it was very short, and she was soon outside again,
and standing in the village street, looking right and left, as if
expecting to see someone coming in either direction. It had not escaped
Mary Gifford's notice that Lucy dressed herself with more than ordinary
care. She wore the short skirt of the time, which displayed her small feet
and ankles to advantage.

Over the skirt was a crimson kirtle of fine cloth, cut square in the
bodice, and crossed by a thick white kerchief, edged with lace. Lucy's
slender neck was set in a ruff, fastened at the throat by a gold brooch,
which sparkled in the light.

Her chestnut hair was gathered up from her forehead, and a little pointed
cap of black velvet, edged with gold, was set upon it, and contrasted well
with the bright locks, from which a curl, either by accident or design, had
been loosened, and rippled over her shoulder, below her waist.

Lucy was well known in the village, and, as she stood debating whether she
should go home or wait for a few minutes longer, a man, with the badge of
the Sidneys on his arm, came up on horseback, and turned into the park
gate, which was near this end of the village.

'They must be coming now,' she said; 'they must be coming. Perhaps I shall
see Humphrey, and he will tell me if Mr Sydney is returning this evening. I
can hide behind the trees just outside the gate. No one will see me.'

Presently another horseman came riding slowly along. He was hailed by one
of the loiterers in the street, and Lucy heard the question asked and
answered.

'Yes, Mr Sidney is on the road. He is gone round by the main entrance, with
two of his gentlemen.'

'He won't pass this way, then, to-night,' Lucy thought. 'Oh, I wish I could
see him. Humphrey is so dull, and he won't ask him to do what I want. I
know my Lady Mary would take me to see the show if Mr Philip wished, and--'

'Lucy, why are you here alone?' and the speaker dismounted, and, throwing
the reins of his horse to a groom, he was at her side in a moment.

'I came down to bring food to the hungry. Where's the harm of that?'

'It is getting late. I'll walk up the hill with you. Lucy, does Mistress
Gifford know of your coming?'

'What if she doesn't? I please myself; tell me, Humphrey, is Mr Sidney come
home?'

'For a few days. He returns shortly for the great tournament at Whitehall
in honour of the French Embassy.'

'On Sunday next. Oh, Humphrey, I do want to see it--to see Mr Sidney tilt.
I would walk to London to see it, if I can't ride. There is so little time
left. Why won't you ask--beg--pray someone to take me?'

'The tournament is put off. There is time enough and to spare. Her Majesty
the Queen has desired delay, and a day in May is now fixed. Three weeks
hence--'

'Three weeks hence! Then there is hope. I shall go to Lady Mary myself, if
I don't see Mr Sidney.'

'Well, well, come home now, or Mistress Gifford will be full of fears about
you. I marvel that you should add a drop of bitterness to her full cup.'

'I hate you to talk like that,' Lucy said. 'I love Mary better than all the
world beside. No one loves her as I do.'

Humphrey Ratcliffe sighed.

'You speak rashly, like the wayward child you are. In sober earnest, Lucy,
you are too fair to wander into the village alone, and you know it.'

'I wanted to go into the park, and then you came and stopped me.'

'If I did, so much the better,' was the reply. 'I will see you over the
river, at least. Then I must return, to find out if Mr Sidney has any
commands for the morrow.'

They had reached the River Medway now--in these days scarcely more than a
shallow stream, crossed by stepping-stones, or by a narrow plank, with a
handrail on one side only. When the river was low, it was easy to cross the
ford, but, when swollen by heavy rains, it required some skill to do so,
and many people preferred to use the plank as a means of crossing the
stream.

Just as Lucy had put her foot on the first stepping-stone, and rejected all
Humphrey's offers of help with a merry laugh, they were joined by
Humphrey's brother, who was coming down the hill in the opposite direction.

'Stop! hold, Mistress Lucy!' he cried. 'Mistress Forrester, hold!'

'What for?' she said. 'I am coming over,' and with extraordinary swiftness,
Lucy sprang from stone to stone, and, reaching the opposing bank, curtseyed
to George Ratcliffe, saying,--

'Your pleasure, sir?'

'My pleasure is that you should not put your limbs in peril by scaling
those slippery stones. Why not take the bridge?'

'Because I like the ford better. Good-bye. Good-bye, Humphrey,' she called,
waving her hand to the other brother who stood on the bank.

'Good-bye, Mistress Lucy, George will take care of you now. And make all
haste homewards.'

Lucy now began to race up the steep hill at full speed, and her faithful
squire had much difficulty to keep up with her light, airy footsteps.

He was a giant in height and build, and was breathless, when, at the turn
on the side of the hill leading to Ford Manor, Lucy paused.

'You have no cause to come a step further,' she said, laughing. 'Why,
Master Ratcliffe, you are puffing like old Meg when she has pulled the cart
up the hill! Good even to you.'

'Stop, Mistress Forrester.'

'Well, now you are more respectful, I will stop. Well, pray thee, take
breath, and make short work of what you are going to say.'

George hesitated, as much from shyness as from want of breath.

'My mother bids me say that she would fain have you sup with her on the
morrow. Say yes, Lucy; say yes.'

'Oh! I must ask permission first,' she said, 'for, you know, I am a dutiful
step-daughter; but commend me to your mother, and say I will come if they
will permit me, for I love Madam Ratcliffe's sweet pasties. We do not get
sweet pasties yonder. We are bidden to think all sweet and pleasant things
unwholesome, and so we ought to believe it is true; but I don't, for one.
Good-night.'

And Lucy was away along the rugged path at the side of the lane, with its
deep ruts and loose stones, before George Ratcliffe could say another word.

He pursued his way for another mile up the hill, till he came to a house of
rather more pretension than Ford Manor, but of the same character, with a
heavy stone portico and square bays on either side. The diamond-shaped
panes of the lattice were filled in with thick glass, which had only,
within the last few years, replaced the horn which had admitted but little
light into the room, and had been the first attempt at filling in the
windows to keep out rain and storm. Until the latter years of Henry the
Eighth's reign wooden shutters were universal even in the homes of the rich
and great.

The Ratcliffes had held their land under the lords of Penshurst for more
than two centuries, and had, as in duty bound, supplied men and arms, when
called upon to do so by their chief.

The Forresters held also the same tenure of the pasture lands and meadows
which sloped down from Ford Manor, and, in earlier times, they had been the
keepers of the woods which clothed the undulating ground about Penshurst,
and the stately beeches and chestnut trees which stand almost unrivalled in
the far stretching park, where the grand old house of the Sidneys is
situated.

But Mr Forrester, the father of Mary Gifford and Lucy, was the last of his
race, and, though his widow and daughter still occupied the Manor Farm, the
office of keeper of the woods had fallen to another family on a more
distant part of the estate, and it was only by courtesy that Mrs Forrester
was permitted to remain in the house for her life.

The Ratcliffes occupied a superior position, and Mrs Ratcliffe prided
herself on her family, and considered Mrs Forrester very much beneath her
in the social scale.

Was not her younger son the favourite squire of Mr Philip Sidney, an honour
coveted by many, and had he not acquired the air and bearing of the
gentlemen about the Court of the Maiden Queen, and was he not, moreover,
educated in book learning as befitted his position. George, if more homely
in his person and manner, was known in the whole district as a man of
honour, and celebrated for his breed of horses, and for the excellence of
his farm produce.

He superintended everything connected with the small estate, and supplied
the neighbouring gentry with horses, when, perhaps for some hastily formed
expedition, they were suddenly required.

Both brothers were respected in the neighbourhood, and Mrs Ratcliffe had
indeed cause to be satisfied with the sons who had so well taken up the
place their father had left vacant, by a sudden death in the prime of his
manhood.

George Ratcliffe found his mother seated at the head of the long table,
where the men and maidens employed on the farm were gathered at the lower
end.

All rose when George entered, and he said, addressing his mother, as he
seated himself near her,--

'I am later than I thought. I crave pardon, good mother.'

'Granted, my son,' was the reply, with an inclination of the head, which
was, to say the least of it, very stately.

Mrs Ratcliffe stood always upon her dignity before her household, and never
forgot herself, or allowed others to forget, that she was the daughter of a
Knight of the Shire, and that her own family was connected with some of the
leading people at Court. Distantly connected, but still the fact remained,
and Mrs Ratcliffe made the most of it.

When the horn-handled knife had been struck thrice on the board by the
bailiff, who sat at the lower end, the large party rose. George rose also,
and said a short grace. Then the hall was deserted, the servants waiting
till Madam retired to her room, before they cleared away the dishes.

George made a hasty meal, and then, giving his hand to his mother, he led
her through a door at the upper end of the hall to her own parlour.

The spring twilight was deepening, and the figures of both mother and son
were but dimly visible.

Perhaps George was not sorry that there was but little light for his mother
to discover the blush which rose to his honest face, as he said,--

I saw Mistress Lucy Forrester an hour agone, and I bid her to sup with us
on the morrow. I gained your consent to do so,' he added hurriedly.

'You told me of your purpose, George,' his mother said coldly. 'I did not
forbid it, but I could hardly be said to consent. The poor girl may be well
favoured; I do not deny it.'

'Who could deny it?' George exclaimed, with some heat.

'I said I did not deny it; but her relations are, methinks, very coarse.'

'Mother, there is not a gentler lady in the land than Mistress Gifford. If
you doubt my word inquire of Mr Sidney or Lady Mary.'

'There is no occasion for this heat, George; it is unbecoming.'

'Pardon, my mother, but I cannot brook hearing Mistress Gifford and
Mistress Lucy put down as coarse. Coarse!' he repeated--'it is too much!
They can't help themselves that their father chose to marry a virago like
their stepmother. More shame to him; no shame to them.'

'Well-a-day, George, you are really upsetting me. I can hear no more. Stop
this tirade, or I shall swoon; you know I never am fitted to bear loud
voices, or contention and strife. You have bidden the girl to sup, and, as
your cousin Dolly will be here, it will not be amiss for once. But I never
desire to have intercourse with the folk at Ford Place. Although I am a
widow, I must not forget your father's standing. I visit at the Castle, and
dear Lady Mary is so good as to call me her friend. Thus, to be a friend of
Mistress Forrester also is beyond my wish or desire, and surely you could
not desire it.'

George did not reply at first, then he said,--

'Mr Philip Sidney does not despise Mistress Gifford; indeed, it is true,
there is no scorn in him towards anyone that breathes, save only against
mean cowards, liars and traitors. But I wish you a goodnight, mother. I
have to see how the mare does that foaled this morning. She is of great
value to me, and I would fain save her life, if may be.'

When her son was gone, Mistress Ratcliffe resigned herself to meditation.

'He is in love with that child, poor, silly boy. She may be pretty, but it
is the beauty which soon fades. I must keep Dolly with me. She has a pretty
fortune, if not a fair face, and is of our blood, and a meet match for my
home-loving son. I have other hopes for Humphrey. He will wed with some
gentlewoman about the Court. If Mr Philip Sidney wills to bring it about,
it is done. Then I shall be a proud, happy mother, and I shall get out my
taffeta with the old lace, and the ornaments I have not worn since my
husband died, to do honour to the wedding. Humphrey will be knighted some
fine day, and then he shall raise the family again to its proper level.'




CHAPTER II

IN THE PARK

    Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.--BEN JONSON.


The dew lay upon the grass the next morning, and the eastern rays of the
rising sun had but just shot across the slopes of Penshurst Park, when
Philip Sidney passed from under the great gateway of the noble house--or
castle, for it was embattled, by the king's leave, in the reign of Edward
IV,--and crossed the turf towards the avenue of beeches now clothed in the
tenderest hues of spring.

He was at this time in high favour at Court. The cloud which his brave
protest against the Queen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou had cast over
him had passed away, and he was again the favourite on whom Elizabeth
smiled, and from whom she expected and received due homage. But the
perpetual demands made by Elizabeth on her admiring courtiers was often
felt to be irksome.

The chains might be silken, but they were, nevertheless, binding, and it
was a relief to Philip Sidney to escape from the atmosphere of the Court at
times, to breathe the pure air of his home in the fair land of Kent.

Penshurst Place was, and is, one of the most beautiful of the stately homes
of England.

On this April morning the long _façade_ was smiling in the early rays of
the sun, and, as Philip crossed the Park he turned, and, looking back at
it, felt stirring within him that pride of race and home, which is perhaps
one of the strongest points in the character of a well-born Englishman.

'A fair inheritance, doubtless,' he said. 'All things are fair save where
sin and wrong enters. Why should my good Languet have grudged me my
retirement, and rejoice that I have again gone forth into the troublesome
world. 'Success at Court is dearly bought, and I must ever bear about with
me a burden which no mortal eye sees.'

As Philip Sidney paced under the shadow of the beeches, the deep bronze of
fallen leaves at his feet glowing here and there into living gold, as the
low rays of the eastern sun shone through the branches, thinly veiled, as
yet, with tender green, to any casual observer, he did not wear the
appearance of a man whose heart knew any bitterness or was weighted with
any burden.

His light figure, with its easy swing as he walked, the perfect symmetry of
every limb, the pose of his well-shaped head, from which he had removed the
small cap with its short plume, raising his face that the fresh air might
fan it, were all in harmony with the pride and glory of his young manhood.
Suddenly his eyes shone with a smile of welcome, as a lady came from under
the great chestnuts, which were already spreading their fan-like leaves
from every branch, and exclaimed,--

'Ah! sister mine, I little thought I should find you before me breathing
the soft pure air. It has brought the colour to your cheeks which I love to
see.'

'Methinks those who lie a-bed late lose the best of the day, Philip, and
how surpassingly lovely Penshurst is.'

'Wilton does not make it less dear, then, Mary.'

'Nay, both are beautiful, and,' she added, 'both are home now; but tender
thoughts ever cling to the place where childhood has been passed. And how
fares it with you, dear brother?' the Countess of Pembroke said, as she put
her hand within Philip's arm.

'But ill, Mary. I strive, God knoweth, to conquer, but I cannot, I cannot.'

'Nay, Philip, you shall not say so. You must conquer.'

'If I could free myself from the chain--if I could--but it maddens me,
Mary, to think she loved me, and that I was so blind, so blind. She is the
wife of a man she loathes, and I--I am to blame. I, who would have died for
her.'

'Live for her, Philip. Live to show her all that is noble and pure in your
life, and so do her good and not evil. Yes, dear brother, by nurturing this
love you do her a worse evil than you know of. Sure, you would not bring
her to a new misery, a worse misery.'

'No, no. I would not, yet I would. But the sting lies here; hearken, Mary,
to this sonnet, lately penned:--

    'I might--unhappy word! O me! I might,
       And then would not, or could not, see my bliss
     Till now, wrapped in a most infernal night,
       I find how heavenly day--wretch! I did miss.
     Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right.
       No lovely Paris made thy Helen his;
     No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight;
       Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is.
     But to myself, myself did give the blow,
       While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me,
     That I respects, for both our sakes, must show.
       And yet could not by rising morn foresee
     How fair a day was near--O punished eyes!
       That I had been more foolish, or more wise!'

    _Astrophel and Stella_, Sonnet xxxiii.

'Dear brother,' the Countess of Pembroke said,--'these wild laments are not
worthy of you. You shall not make any man moan. You will conquer at last,
and come out of the fight a nobler man. The very beauty around us seems to
bid us rejoice to-day. Come, let us speak of happier themes. You will like
to see my little Will, and carry back good news of him to the Queen, whose
godson he is. Tell her she hath a brave knight in store in our little Will.
You scarce ever saw such tricks as he has, and is not yet one year old.'

Philip Sidney threw off his melancholy mood at his sister's bidding, and,
looking down at her, kissed her pure, fair forehead.

'Pembroke has reason to rejoice in possessing your love, Mary, and I doubt
not the boy is worthy of you, though he does not, or did not, when I saw
him, resemble you.'

'No, he is far handsomer; he has dark eyes and lashes; they lay curled upon
his fair cheeks, making the only shadow there. Will has not the
amber-coloured hair of us Sidneys.'

As this brother and sister stood together in the morning light under the
spreading boughs of the trees, they bore a striking similarity to each
other.

Theirs was not the mere beauty of form and feature, though that was in both
remarkable.

Intellectual power was seen in the wide, straight brow, and the light of
that inner fire we call genius shone in the eyes. It has been said by
contemporary records that Philip Sidney's beauty was too feminine in its
character; but, if in colouring of hair and complexion and delicate outline
of feature, this might be true; there was wonderful strength of purpose in
the mouth and upward curve of the chin which indicated resolution and
courage, and determination to conquer difficulties.

His sister's words were to come true, 'You will conquer at last, and come
out of the fight a nobler man.'

'We must turn homewards now. How long do you tarry here, Philip?'

'But two or three days. Shall we not journey to London in company with
Mary. This tournament needs much preparation; I did but snatch a few days
to speak on our father's affairs and to breathe freely for a short space,
and then I must return.'

Philip Sidney sighed.

'Nay, Philip, what hardship is there in being the favourite of the Queen,
save for the jealousy it may breed. Our good Uncle Leicester tells
marvellous tales of the manner in which the fair ladies of the Court are
ever ready to smile on you, to say nought of the Queen's own delight to
have you near her. She seems to have forgotten your former protest against
the Duke of Anjou, and to believe in your approval now.'

'It is scarce approval, Mary, but the Queen must do as she lists. She is of
an age to discern what is best for herself and her realm.'

'She is, indeed, of an age to do so,' Mary said, with a silvery laugh. 'But
queens never grow old, they leave the process to humbler folk, Philip.'

They had reached the house now, and passed under the gateway into the
quadrangle, just as the big bell was making a great clamour with its iron,
merciless tongue.

'Breakfast is served,' the Countess said, 'and our good mother will already
be on the dais awaiting us. Would that our father were here with her. He
will be present at the tournament, and I will do my utmost to persuade him
to take a month of summer here at Penshurst, and dismiss all care for the
time.'

Lady Mary welcomed her son and daughter with a glad smile. She had also
been astir early, looking into the affairs of her household, in the home
where the unbroken family so seldom met now. Lady Mary's life had been a
chequered one, and she had suffered much as a wife, from the unfair
treatment her brave, noble husband, Sir Henry Sidney, had received at the
Queen's hand.

He was poor in purse and wounded in heart for his service in Ireland, from
which he returned at last, losing everything but honour. He was also Lord
President of Wales, and received small thanks for all he did in the
interests of the Principality, and less gratitude. When breakfast was
concluded, Lady Mary Sidney summoned Philip to a conference with her in the
small ante-room, which was reached by a stone staircase at the upper end of
the large hall.

'You came hither, my son, as your good father's officer. How do you feel
towards this scheme? If my husband, your father, be sent for the fourth
time to Ireland, will you accompany him, and serve him with the wisdom you
ever show, Philip? It is time your father's services should gain some
reward. Speak, Philip; do not hang back, but let me hear your mind.'

'Ah, sweet mother,' Philip said, seating himself on a settle at his
mother's side, and taking her hand in his, 'do not think I slight my good
father, or disparage all his great service for Ireland, if I say I cannot
advise him to move in this matter. I was amazed when Molineux came charged
with this mission to Court, and I told him I disapproved the appeal being
made. For myself, I could not go thither to Ireland in the capacity my
father speaks of; and as to the Queen conferring on him a title of nobility
or large estates, she will never do it. I know this much, and I counsel my
father to let the matter rest. He is held in respect at Ludlow, he has our
own fair home of Penshurst as an inheritance, why, then, enfeebled in
health, should he seek to be embroiled for the fourth time in the affairs
of that unhappy country of Ireland? Misfortune followed his earlier
footsteps there, is it to be counted on that as a man prematurely old and
worn, he should have better success, say rather win more gratitude. Nay,
dearest and best of wives and mothers, let me beg of you to dissuade my
father from this project.'

'Philip,' Lady Sidney replied, with some heat, 'my heart throbs with
indignation when I think of the treatment your noble father has received at
the hands of the royal mistress he has served with honest devotion. He is
no smooth-tongued courtier, Philip; he has taken no lessons in the school
of flattery, and for this he is cast aside and misused. Think,' Lady Sidney
said, 'think, Philip, of the scant and mean allowance of twenty pounds
weekly he receives as President of Wales. Forsooth, to keep up any fitting
dignity in our mansion it costs us thrice that sum. And if it is complained
that I am with my dear spouse, and so add to the cost, sure I am worth my
meat, of which my poor scarred face is a token. Scarce ever do I see these
scars but I remember how I caught that baleful disease, from which God keep
you, my son. Should He visit you with it, may you be tended with the care
wherewith I tended the Queen's highness, when most of her attendants stood
far off. Nay, Philip, I fear you are in danger of forgetting the past
service your parents have rendered, in the glamour of the present favour
shown to you at Court.'

Lady Mary Sidney's voice trembled, and tears sprang to her eyes.

Philip could never brook the sight of his mother's distress; and he knew
all she said was perfectly true and could not be contradicted.

'I will confer with my father on this matter,' he said. 'Dear mother, do
not, I pray you, deem me hard and indifferent. As soon as this
entertainment of the Ambassadors from France is over, I will set about
inquiring into the aspect of affairs, and find out my Lord Burleigh's
views. If I see cause to change my mind, I will not be too proud to own
it.'

'That is like my noble Philip,' his mother said. 'Ah, my son, this heavy
money trouble as to debts and ceaseless claims, makes of me an old woman,
far more than the scars of the dire disease which snatched away my beauty
twenty years ago. You were but a little fellow then, but then, as now, wise
beyond your years. It was hard for me to meet your inquiring gaze, and to
hear the smothered sigh as you looked on your mother's changed face. While
little Mary drew back from my offered kiss, and cried out, "It is not my
pretty mother," you put your arms round me, saying to her, "It is our own
dear mother, Mary. Fie then, for shame," as she struggled to get away from
the woman who tried to force her to kiss me.' Then with the swift change of
mood which characterised Lady Sidney she stroked Philip's cheek, and said
laughing,--'How many fair ladies are sighing for your favour, my son? Truly
the hearts of many must be in danger of capture. Wit, wisdom, learning and
beauty such as yours do not often go hand in hand.'

'Nay; now, mother mine, I shall say you have taken lessons in the school of
flattery, for which you were ready to take me to task not long ago. But I
must away to look round the stables, and see to the proper equipment of the
men who will ride with me to the tourney at Whitehall next month.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Lucy Forrester found her household duties irksome the next morning.

A wrangle with her stepmother had ended in a stormy scene, when Mrs
Forrester gave Lucy a sudden box on the ear for neglecting to replenish the
fire on the open hearth with wood, so that when it was time to hang up the
kettle to boil the meat for the dinner, served at eleven o'clock to the
family, there were only a few smouldering white ashes left.

'As if I cared a groat for you! Box the other ear if you like, and kindle
your own fire, for me.'

'You shall not have bite or sup in this house to-day,' Mrs Forrester
screamed, as Lucy darted out of the kitchen, answering,--

'I don't want your food. I know where I shall be better served.'

With flashing eyes and heightened colour, Lucy found herself face to face,
on the strip of rough ground before the house, with Humphrey Ratcliffe.

'Mistress Lucy,' he exclaimed, 'whether are you rushing like a whirlwind?'

'Anywhere, to get out of hearing of that tongue. Hark, now, it is still
wagging like the clapper of a bell.'

'Where is Mistress Gifford?' Humphrey asked, without taking any notice of
Lucy's reference to the quarrel which he guessed had been raging.

'Oh, it's Mary you want to see, not me,' Lucy said. 'Well, she is gone up
to the shepherd's hut to look after a sick child there. She has got the boy
with her, and I promised to see to the fire on the hearth, but I didn't,
and that is the cause of the uproar. But good Master Humphrey, help me to
get to London to see the great tourney. Oh!' clasping her her hands in
entreaty, 'I pray you help me to get there. I am so sick of this place. Why
should I be kept here till I am old?'

'That is a-far off day, Mistress Lucy,' Humphrey said. 'But I have a plan
which, if it succeeds, may give you your desire.'

'Oh, you are good, Master Humphrey, so good!'

'My mother wishes to see London again, and I can provide her with lodgings
not far from Whitehall. It may be there will be a corner found for you,
that is to say, if Mistress Gifford approves.'

'I'll make her approve, I warrant. I am to sup with Mistress Ratcliffe this
evening, and I will be as meek as a lamb and curtsey my lowest to her, and
call her madam, and be ever so smiling to Master George. I'll win favour
for once.'

Humphrey discreetly forbore to let Lucy know that it was at George's
earnest desire he had determined to make this proposal to their mother.

'Tell me, Master Humphrey, will Mr Sidney be coming this way to-day?'

'It may be; he had to choose two extra horses from George's stalls for the
journey. George himself is, of course, to be in attendance, and one of our
serving men as groom. It is possible that Mr Sidney may be coming either
to-day or on the morrow.'

'He will not pass without seeing Mary. I wish--'

But Lucy had not time to say what the wish was, for Mary Gifford and her
little son were now seen coming along a field path which led down the
hillside from the open country beyond.

Humphrey stepped forward quickly to meet them, and lifted Ambrose over the
stile, in spite of his declaration that he could get over by himself.

Humphrey tossed the child high in the air before he set him on his legs
again, and then said to Mary,--

'Out on a mission of mercy, as is your wont, Mistress Gifford.'

Mary's colour rose as she said,--

'The sick and poor are always in the world.'

'And the sad also,' Humphrey said, with an appealing look, which Mary
understood only too well.

'Come and see the little chickies, Master Humphrey,' Ambrose said. 'There's
three little ducks amongst them. Aunt Lou put the eggs under the old mother
for fun. Grannie does not know, and when the little ducklings waddle off to
the pond, she'll be in a fright, and think they'll all be drowned, and so
will the hen.'

But Humphrey scarcely heeded the child's chatter, he was earnestly looking
at Mary Gifford's face.

Surely there must be some fresh cause of trouble there, for he thought he
saw traces of recent tears.

Little Ambrose, finding his appeal to Humphrey took no effect, scampered
off to the poultry yard, Lucy following. She thought it would be wiser to
leave Humphrey to plead her cause, and persuade Mary that if his mother
would consent to her journey to London, she was better out of the way when
Mary raised objections to the fulfilment of her wishes.

'Is there any new cause of trouble, Mistress Gifford,' Humphrey asked.

'Nothing new--as you take the word.'

'Nought in which I can be of help?'

Mary hesitated, and Humphrey said,--

'The wrangles and quarrels yonder are on the increase. Is that so?' he
asked. 'I heard loud voices when I came up to the house a short time ago,
and Lucy rushed out with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes.'

'Poor child,' Mary said, 'I will not say there is not blame on both sides,
but the life we lead yonder becomes more and more hard. It is ill training
for my little son to see angry passions raging, and to hear loud
reproaches.'

'I know it! I know it!' Humphrey exclaimed. 'End it, Mary--end it for ever,
and come and bless me with your love.'

'Nay, Humphrey, do not urge me to do what is impossible. It cannot be.'

Humphrey Ratcliffe turned away with an impatient gesture, saying,--

'I see no glory in self-martyrdom. I offer you a home, and I swear to
protect you from all evil, and keep your boy from evil, train him to be a
noble gentleman, and, forsooth, you turn away and will have none of me.'

'Dear friend,' Mary began in a low voice, 'trust me so far as to believe
that I have a reason--a good reason--for refusing what would be, I doubt
not, a haven of calm after the troubled waters of my life. Trust me, kind
Master Ratcliffe, nor think ill of me. I pray you.'

'Ill of you! nay, Mary, you know no saint in heaven is ever more devoutly
worshipped than I worship you.' But, seeing her distress as he said these
words, he went on,--'I will wait, I will bide my time, and, meanwhile,
serve you in all ways I can. Here is this child, your young sister, chafing
against the life she leads here. I will do my best to persuade my mother to
take her in her company to London for the grand show, and it may be that
some great lady may take a fancy for her, and she may win a place as
waiting-woman about the person of some Court dame. Do you consent? Do you
give me permission to try?'

'But Lucy is not in favour with your mother; she disdains us as beneath her
notice.'

'Not you--not Lucy; it is your father's widow whom she mislikes. Her
Puritan whims and fancies are a cause of offence, and no aversions are so
strong as those begotten by religious difference.'

'That is so, alas!' Mary Gifford said. 'Persecution for diversity of faith,
rather for diversity in the form of worship: it is this that tears this
country into baleful divisions, and pierces it with wounds which are slow
to heal.'

'That is true,' Humphrey said; 'and the law, condemning all Papists to
suffer extreme penalty, if found worshipping God after their own manner,
has a cruel significance. But we must not forget the fires of Smithfield,
nor the horrors to which this country was subjected when Spanish influence
was at work with a Papist queen on the throne.'

'No,' Mary said in a low voice. 'Nor can we forget the grey head of that
queen's dearest friend, which was brought to the block, and stirred the
bitterness of revenge in Queen Mary's heart.'

'Well,' Humphrey said, 'I am vowed to resist, with all possible might, the
encroachments of Spain,--which means the plotting of Philip to force the
religion of the Pope upon an unwilling people--in the Low Countries first,
and then, believe me, he will not stop there. Mr Sidney's protest against
the Queen's marriage with the Duc of Anjou was founded on the horror he
felt of seeing this realm given over once more to the power of the Pope. Mr
Sidney saw, with his own eyes, the Massacre of St Bartholomew; and what
security could there be if any of this crafty Medici race should be set on
high in this country?'

'Mr Sidney has changed somewhat in his views. Is it not so?' Mary asked.

'He has submitted to the inevitable--that is to say, finding the Queen
determined, he, with Lord Burleigh and others in high office, will confer
with the ambassadors who come from France for the purpose--praying
secretly, however, that the whole matter may fall to pieces. And, indeed,
this is likely. The Queen's highness is loth to lose her supremacy, and
there are favourites at Court who would ill brook to be displaced by a
rival power. My lord the Earl of Leicester is one, though he hides his real
feeling from his nephew, my noble master.'

Mary Gifford was silent for a few moments, then she said,--

'If you can aid my poor little sister to get her heart's desire, do so. I
consent, for life here is not to be desired for many reasons. Ah! Master
Ratcliffe,' Mary said, 'how fair is this world, and is there a fairer spot
in it than these our native hills and valleys over which we look every day?
See the wooded heights yonder, in all the varied colours of the early
spring; see the sloping pastures, where the flowers make a carpet! Often as
I look on it, and see the tower of the church rising amongst the red-tiled
roofs of the cottages, and beyond, the stately pile of Penshurst Castle, I
think if only sin were absent, and truth and righteousness reigned, this
village would find no rival save in the Eden before the serpent entered,
and the ruin came with sin!'

Humphrey Ratcliffe liked to watch Mary's face as she spoke; but, as he left
her, a few minutes later, he felt there was something which divided them
and made his suit hopeless. What was it?

He knew but little of the history of her short married life. Her suitor had
come in the train of the Earl of Leicester in one of his visits to
Penshurst.

That she had been cruelly deceived was known, and that she had come back to
her old home of Ford Manor with her child, clad in the weeds of widowhood,
but saying nothing of what had really happened. Rumour had been busy, and
Ambrose Gifford had been supposed to have been slain in a disgraceful
fight; but nothing was absolutely certain; and Humphrey Ratcliffe, who had
known Mary from her girlhood, now discovered that he had loved her always,
and that he had failed to win her in her early youth because he had never
tried to do so, and now that he loved her passionately, he was to find his
suit was hopeless.

Perhaps it was the similarity between his own case and that of his master's
that made the tie between them stronger than is often the case between an
esquire and his chief.




CHAPTER III

A STRANGE MEETING

    'Before the door sat self-consuming Care,
     Day and night keeping wary watch and ward
     For fear lest Force or Fraud should unaware
     Break in, and spoil the treasure there in gard.'

    SPENSER.


Lucy Forrester soon forgot the vexation and anger which her stepmother's
scolding had roused. She kept out of her sight, and entertained little
Ambrose with stories of fairies and elfs and imps and hobgoblins till the
time came for her to go up the hill to the Ratcliffes' house.

Lucy did not attempt to sit down at the board when dinner was served at
eleven o'clock. She had once or twice, when in disgrace, rebelled at the
sight of the crust of bread and the mug of water which had been set before
her as a token of Mistress Forrester's displeasure.

'I am not a child now,' she thought, 'to be gaped at by serving men and
maids. I will take care of myself in the buttery, and then get ready for my
walk up the hill. Perhaps, who knows, I may chance to meet Mr Sidney, and
I may get a word from him or a rare smile; and then a fig for frowns and
the rating and scolding of fifty cross stepmothers! I wish Mary did not
look so grave. I hate to grieve her. Well-a-day, if only I can get to
London, and see him in the tourney, I shall die of joy.'

Lucy was scarcely sixteen, an enthusiastic child, who had conceived a
romantic devotion for Mr Philip Sidney, and worshipped his ideal as maidens
of her temperament have worshipped at their idol's shrine since time began.

And who can blame this country maiden if she cherished a passionate
admiration for one, who won the hearts of Court ladies and hoary statesmen
of a grave scholar like Hubert Languet, and of the Queen herself, who
called him the brightest jewel of her Court, and who often excited the
jealousy of her older favourites by the marks of favour she bestowed on
him.

In the village church on Sundays Lucy would sit with anxious, eager
expectation till she saw the Sidney pew filled; if Mr Sidney was present it
was an hour or two of bliss; if, as was frequently the case, his place was
empty, she would bow her head to hide the tears of vexation and
disappointment which started to her eyes.

Nor have these dreams of youthful romance wholly passed away. Even in the
rush and hurry of the prosaic world at the end of the nineteenth century
they yet give a certain pleasure of unfulfilled longings to some young
hearts, and fade away like the early cloud and morning dew, to leave behind
only a memory of mingled pain and sweetness, recalled in after time with
something of self-pity and something of surprise that such things had ever
seemed real and not visionary, and had touched the warm springs in the
heart now chilled, it may be, by the stern exigencies of this transitory
life.

It must be said that few idols have been worthier of youthful adoration
than was this true knight at whose shrine Lucy laid her heart. If there
were spots in the sun, 'wandering isles of night,' which were at this time
somewhat darkening its lustre, they were unknown to Lucy Forrester. Philip
Sidney was to her all that was noble, pure, and true, and, as she put on
her prettiest cap, with its long veil and little edge of seed pearls,
Mary's gift, and crossed her finest kerchief across her breast, she saw
herself in the bit of polished steel which served for her mirror, and
smiled as she thought,--

'What if I meet him on the way, he may look at me with some approval. I
cannot help it. I do love to be fair, and why should I pretend I am ugly,
even to myself. No,' she went on turning her graceful head, first to the
right and then to the left, before the little mirror; 'no, I can't pretend
to be ugly, like Doll Ratcliffe, who makes eyes at poor old George. She may
have him, ay, and welcome, for all I care.'

Lucy was pirouetting round the confined space of her attic chamber, which
was bare enough of all ornament, and mean and humble in its furniture, when
little Ambrose's feet were heard on the wooden stairs leading to this upper
story of the old house, and he called, in his loud, childish treble,--

'Aunt Lou, you are to come down and see Mr Sidney.'

Lucy clasped her small hands together in an ecstasy of delight.

'Is it true--is it true, Ambrose? Child, is it true?'

'I always say true things, mother saith lies are wicked,' the boy
exclaimed. 'You are very pretty, Aunt Lou. I like you. I wish mother would
wear red gowns, and--and--'

But Lucy paid no heed to the child's compliments. She gave a parting look
at the mirror, and then brushed past little Ambrose and went downstairs
with a beating heart.

Mr Sidney was standing on the rough ground before Ford Place, leaning
against the gnarled trunk of an ancient thorn tree, which had yet life
enough left in it to put forth its tiny, round buds of pink and white, soon
to open and fill the air with fragrance.

By his side Mary Gifford stood, with her face turned towards the smiling
landscape before her.

Philip Sidney, with the courtesy of the true gentleman, advanced to Lucy
with his cap in his hand, bending the knee, and greeting her with all the
grace and courtly ceremony with which he would have greeted the highest
lady in the land.

The girl's face shone with proud delight, and the young voice trembled a
little as she said, in answer to his question,--

'I thank you, sir, I am well and hearty.'

'I need scarce ask the question,' Mr Sidney said. 'With your good sister's
approval, I came to inquire if you would care to fill the vacant place in
my sister the Countess of Pembroke's household. She leaves Penshurst
shortly, and will be at Leicester House before returning to Wilton. One of
her gentlewomen is summoned to her father's deathbed, and Mistress Crawley,
her bower-woman, needs help. I am not learned in the secrets of the
toilette, but you would soon learn what might be expected of you.'

'And shall I see the great show, sir--shall I see the tourney and the
knights tilting?' Lucy said, unable to repress her joy.

'Doubtless,' Mr Sidney replied laughing. 'But, Mistress Lucy, it will not
be all play. Mistress Crawley is a somewhat stern task-mistress. My sister
bade me say as much. Therefore, consider the proposal well, and consult
Mistress Gifford, than whom you cannot have a wiser counsellor.'

'Mary,' Lucy exclaimed, 'I may go to serve my Lady of Pembroke? Speak,
Mary.'

Mary Gifford now turned towards Lucy and Mr Sidney. Up to this time she had
averted her face.

'You must remember, Lucy,' she said gently, 'Mr Sidney's words. It will
not be all play, and, methinks, you have often shown impatience of control
and undue heat when your will is crossed.'

Lucy's face flushed crimson, as she answered,--

'It is not kind to say this, Mary. You know--you must know how hard it is
to please the one who rules here.'

'I know it, dear child, full well,' Mary said. 'But we must not hinder Mr
Sidney longer. It will be only right to consult our stepmother, and crave
leave of Mr Sidney to defer an answer till the morrow.'

'By all means, Mistress Gifford, do so,' Philip Sidney said.

While these words had passed between the two sisters, little Ambrose had
been curiously stroking the hilt of Mr Sidney's sword, and fingering the
wide ends of the belt which held it in its place.

'Oh,' the child said, 'I hope I shall have a sword when I am a man, and go
to battle with you, sir. Will you take me with you when I am big and
strong?'

'Will I not!' Mr Sidney said. 'The time may come when I shall want to
gather all loyal hearts round me for service. I'll not forget you, Ambrose,
if so it chances.'

'You are but a little child, my son,' Mary said, with a sudden gesture,
putting her arm round him. 'You must stay with your mother for a long, long
time, and be a dutiful son.'

'I am near seven years old, and I can fling a stone further than Giles,
the cowherd's boy, and I can bend a bow, and--'

'Hush, my little son,' Mary Gifford said. 'Do not chatter of your doings.
Mr Sidney does not care to hear of them.'

'Strength of limb is good,' Philip said, 'but strength of will is better,
little Ambrose. Strive to be a dutiful son to the best of mothers. A
fatherless boy has to do his utmost to have a care of his mother.'

The child left Philip Sidney's side, and went to his mother, who had turned
away her face, with an exclamation of distress.

'Fatherless,' she repeated; 'ay, and worse than fatherless!'

But the words did not reach Mr Sidney's ears. His groom was waiting for him
at the gate leading to the lane, and, taking Ambrose by the hand, he
said,--

'Come with me, boy, and I will give you a ride to the end of the lane; and
do you, Mistress Lucy, follow, and take back the young horseman when I have
put him down, if it please you.'

'I will come also,' Mary Gifford said hastily.

She could scarcely bear her boy out of her sight, and watched him with
anxious eyes, as Sir Philip set him on the saddle, across which his small
legs could scarcely stride, the child dumb with delight, his eyes
sparkling, his little hands clutching the bridle-rein, and his figure drawn
up to its full height.

'Oh, have a care, Ambrose,' Mary exclaimed.

Mr Sidney laughed.

'He shall come to no harm, Mistress Gifford. My hand is ready to stop him
if he falls. But, indeed, there is no fear; he sits square and upright,
like a man.'

The beautiful, well-trained horse arched his neck in reply to his master's
'Softly, Hero--quietly,' as he stepped out, raising his feet deliberately,
with that stately air which marks high breeding, and pacing down the rugged
path of the lane, with slow and measured tread, Mr Sidney at his side, the
groom in attendance following with the other horse.

'Oh, I would like to ride like thus far, far away,' the boy said, as Mr
Sidney lifted him down, and set him by his mother's side.

'Make Mr Sidney your bow, and say you are grateful to him for this great
kindness, Ambrose.'

The child was almost too excited to speak, but Mr Sidney sprang lightly
into the saddle, and, with a parting smile to Lucy, with the words, 'We
shall await your decision, Mistress Forrester,' he rode away, the groom
following.

Lucy stood at the turn of the road, watching the horses and the riders,
till they had disappeared, and then she returned to the house with Mary,
like the child, too happy to speak. They reached the house together, and
were met by Mrs Forrester.

She had heard of Mr Sidney's visit, and had hastened upstairs to exchange
her coarse homespun for a gown of grey taffeta and a kirtle of the same
colour; a large white cap or hood was set a little awry on her thin, grey
hair.

'You might have had the grace to ask Mr Sidney to step in,' she said
sharply to Mary Gifford. 'It is ill manners to stand chaffering outside
when the mistress of a house would fain offer a cup of mead to her guest.
But I never look for aught but uncivil conduct from either of you. What are
you pranked out for like this?' she asked, addressing Lucy.

'I am going to sup with Mistress Ratcliffe. You needn't look so cross. I
sha'n't trouble you long. I am going to Court with my Lady Pembroke, and I
may never darken your doors again.'

'You'll get into mischief like your sister before you, I'll warrant, and if
you do, don't come back here, for I'll shut the door in your face, as sure
as my name is Anne Forrester.'

'Have no fear,' Lucy said. 'I am away now by the path across the hills.'

'Nay, Lucy!' Mary exclaimed. 'Nay, by the highway is best. The hill path is
lonesome. Stay, Lucy.'

But Lucy was gone, and Mary, looking after her retreating figure, could not
gainsay Mistress Forrester, as she said,--

'Wilful, headstrong little baggage, she will rue her behaviour some fine
day, as you have done.'

'Mother,' Mary Gifford said, in a troubled voice, 'do not be for ever
reproaching me in the hearing of others, it is cruel. It may be better for
you and for me if I leave my father's house, and seek some humble refuge
with my boy.'

But this did not suit Mistress Forrester's views. Mary Gifford was far too
useful to her. She could write, and manage the accounts of the farm; she
could, by a few calm words, effect more with lazy or careless serving men
and maids than their mistress did by scolding and reproofs, often
accompanied with a box on the ear or a sharp blow across the shoulder to
enforce what she said.

It would not answer Mistress Forrester's purpose to let Mary Gifford go, so
she said,--

'Hoity, toity! don't talk like that. It's folly to say you will leave a
good home when you have no home to go to. Bide here, and let bygones be
bygones. I am ready to be friendly if you'll let me. I must away now to see
about the two sick lambs; it's all along of the shepherd's ill treatment of
the ewe that I am like to lose 'em.'

Mistress Forrester bustled away, and Mary Gifford was left with Ambrose,
who was making a hobbyhorse of a thick stick, scampering up and down, and
calling out,--

'Gee-up, Hero! I'm off to the fight with Mr Sidney.'

Mary looked at the boy with a strange, wistful smile.

'Poor child!' she murmured, 'poor child! he hath no young comrades with
whom to make merry. It is well he can be so jocund and happy. It is true
what Mistress Gifford saith, I have no home, and I must bide quietly here,
for the boy is safe, and who can tell to what danger I might not expose him
if I ventured forth with him into the world again.'

Lucy Forrester went gaily across the open ground, fearless of any danger
from horned cattle, of which there were several feeding on the short sweet
grass.

She sang as she went, out of the gladness of her heart; triumph, too,
mingled with the gladness.

How surprised Mistress Ratcliffe would be to hear she was to be a
waiting-woman to my lady the Countess of Pembroke. George had thought of
asking his mother to take her to London. Humphrey had spoken of a corner
being found for her. Now, what did it matter whether Mistress Ratcliffe
consented or not to her son's desire. She had no need to be beholden to
her. She would be lodged in a grand house, and have a place with the ladies
of the Countess's household.

Remembering how Mistress Ratcliffe had often looked down upon her and Mary,
it was a keen delight to her to feel how chagrined she would be at her
unexpected good fortune.

It was not absolutely settled yet, but she was sure Mary would give
consent, and, on the morrow, after service in the church, she would be
admitted to the grand house at Penshurst, and see the Countess herself, and
perhaps Mr Philip Sidney.

Perched on a stile to rest, Lucy indulged in a prolonged meditation on the
fair prospect which had so unexpectedly opened before her. Of course Mary
would make no real objection. No one ever did resist Mr Philip Sidney's
will, and it was he had proposed the scheme, and he wished her to be one of
his sister's waiting-women.

This gave the poor, little fluttering heart the most intense pleasure,
which she could scarcely dare to acknowledge, even to herself. Still, had
not Mr Sidney come to offer the coveted place to her--come himself? And had
he not beamed on her with his beautiful smile? Yes, and with admiring eyes!

How long Lucy might have indulged in these thoughts it is impossible to
say, had she not been suddenly conscious that she was not alone.

Stealthy footsteps were heard approaching from behind, and, turning her
head, she saw a tall man, wearing a long cloak, much the worse for wear,
and a hat, with neither band nor feather, pulled down over his eyes.

Lucy started, and jumped from the stile, her heart beating violently, and
her face, which a few moments before had been radiant with pleasure, pale
and frightened.

'Whither away, little maiden; why so scared?' the man said. 'I mean no
harm. See!' he said, taking a rosary from under his cloak, 'see, I kiss the
blessed cross, in token that you need not fear. I am a poor Catholic,
hiding from persecutors, wandering about and living in dens and caves of
the earth.'

Lucy had, in her short life, heard nothing but condemnation of Papists.
When she thought of them at all, it was with horror, and her knees trembled
under her, and her voice was scarcely audible as she said,--

'Prithee, sir, suffer me to pass.'

'On one condition. You know a house called Ford Place?'

'Ay, sir, I do; and I will run back thither and--'

'You will _not_ do so, little maiden; you will tell me how it fares with a
gentlewoman there, called Mary Gifford?'

'She is well, sir; she is--'

'Hearken! She has a boy named Ambrose. I would fain see him. Bring him
hither to me, and I will call on all the saints to bless you. Our Lady
shall watch over you and grant you your heart's desire.'

'I cannot do it, sir; I dare not! Let me pass. If you would fain see the
boy, go to the house.'

'And be seized and taken off before the grand folk down yonder and
imprisoned, and, it may be, tortured. Hearken,' he went on, bringing his
face unpleasantly near Lucy's, 'hearken, I can call down blessings on you,
but I can call down bitter curses also. Your heart's desire shall be denied
you, you shall eat the bread of affliction and drink the water of tears,
if you betray me. If you keep my secret, and let me see that boy, blessings
shall be showered on you; choose now.'

Poor Lucy was but a child, she had scarcely counted out sixteen years. This
strange man, with his keen dark eyes gleaming under the black cap and
looking as if they read her very soul, seemed to get her into his power.
She was faint with terror, and looked round in vain for help, for some one
to come who would deliver her from her trouble.

With a cry of delight she sprang again on the topmost rung of the stile, as
she saw George Ratcliffe's giant form appearing in the distance on the
slope of a rising ground.

The hillside was covered in this part with great hillocks of heather and
gorse.

Apparently her persecutor had also caught sight of the approaching figure,
for he relaxed his hold on her wrist, which he had seized as she had sprung
up on the stile, and, looking back when she had run some distance towards
George, she saw that the man had disappeared.

'George! George!' she cried, as he came with great strides towards her,
and, to his intense satisfaction, even in his dismay at her apparent
distress, threw herself into his arms. 'George! a dreadful man, a Papist,
has scared me. He will curse me, George. Oh! it is terrible to be cursed.
Save me from him.'

George looked about in bewilderment.

'I see no man. There is no one near, Lucy. I see no one.'

'Did you not see him as you came in sight?'

'Nay, I was thinking only of you, and hoping to meet you on your way. I saw
no man, nor did I see you till I had come up yonder rising ground, just as
you mounted the stile. Be not so distressed,' George said, 'we will scour
the country for the villain, for villain he must be if he is a Papist; but
come now with me. My mother is well-pleased that you should sup with us.
Oh! Lucy,' George said, with lover-like earnestness, 'smile again, I pray
you, it goes to my heart to see you thus scared, though without reason, I
trust. Will it please you to stay here, while I go and unearth the wretch,
and belabour him till there is no breath left in him.'

'No, no, George, don't leave me. I should fear to be left alone. Don't,
don't leave me.'

George was only too willing to remain, and presently Lucy grew calmer, and
they walked slowly across the heath together.

George was too happy for many words, and scarcely heeding even Lucy's
account of her adventure, in the bliss of having her clinging to his arm,
and the memory of that moment when she threw herself upon him for
protection and safety.

'What can he want with Ambrose, Mary's child? He tried to make me promise
to bring him to that spot, that he might see him. What can it mean? It will
frighten Mary when I tell her, for she is ever dismayed if the child is
long-out of her sight. What can it mean?'

'I cannot say,' George replied, dreamily. 'Thank God you are safe. That man
is some agent of the devil, but I will put Humphrey on the scent, and we
will track him out. I have heard there is a nest of Papists hiding in
Tunbridge. Doubtless he is one. Forget him now, Lucy; forget him, and be
happy.'

'He gripped my wrist so hard,' Lucy said, holding up her little hand like a
child for pity.

It is small wonder that George treated her as a child, and, taking the
little hand in his, pressed a fervent kiss upon it.

This seemed to recall Lucy from her clinging, softened mood. She sprang
away from George with heightened colour, and said, with all her old
brightness,--

'I have news for you. I am going to London to see the tourney, and I am to
be one of my Lady of Pembroke's waiting-women. Isn't that grand news?'

Poor George! his dream of bliss was over now.

'Going away!--for how long a space?' he exclaimed.

'Ah! that I cannot tell you, for more weeks or months than I can count, may
be.'

George, who had with Humphrey done his utmost to persuade their mother to
consent to take Lucy with her, in the event of her going to London, without
success, or, rather, without a distinct promise that she would do so, was
fairly bewildered.

'How did it come about?' he asked.

'Oh! that is a question, indeed, Master Ratcliffe. There is someone you
know of who can bring about what he wishes. It is he who has commended me
to my Lady Pembroke, hearing, it may be, from your brother, that I wished
to see the tourney, and the Queen, and all the fine doings. Mr Sidney came
himself to offer the place of waiting-woman to me.'

'Came himself!' George exclaimed.

'And, prithee, why not; am I beneath his notice as I am beneath your
mother's? It seems not.'

George had not time to reply, for, on the square of turf before the house,
Mistress Ratcliffe and her niece, Dorothy Ratcliffe, were apparently
awaiting their arrival.

'You are late, George, as is your wont,' his mother said. 'Doll must make
you more mindful of the fixed time for meals. Is this young woman Mistress
Forrester's daughter? I bid you kindly welcome.'

'I thank you, madam,' Lucy said. 'I have seen you many a time, and,
methinks, you must have seen me; but, doubtless, I was not like to be
remembered by such as you and Mistress Dorothy.'

This little thrust passed unnoticed. Mistress Ratcliffe merely said,--

'George, lead your cousin Doll to the hall, for supper is served. Mistress
Lucy, will you permit me to take your hand?'

Lucy made another curtsey, as George, with a rueful face, obeyed his mother
and handed his cousin up the stone steps to the porch, his mother and Lucy
following.

Mistress Ratcliffe was attired in her best gown, with a long-pointed waist
and tight sleeves slashed with purple. Her ruff rivalled the Queen's in
thickness and height; and the heavy folds of her lute-string skirt were
held out by a wide hoop, which occupied the somewhat narrow doorway as they
entered the hall.

Lucy was more than usually hungry, and did full justice to the pasties and
conserves of apples which graced the board. As she looked at Dorothy
Ratcliffe her heart swelled with triumph, for she was not slow to notice
that the household below the salt cast admiring glances at her, and that
Dorothy attracted no attention.

George's spirits had sunk below their accustomed level, and his mother
sharply reproved him for inattention to his cousin.

'You are ill performing the duties of a host, George. See, Doll's trencher
is empty, and the grace-cup is standing by your elbow unheeded. Are you
dreaming, George, or half-asleep?'

'I crave pardon, mother,' George said, with a great effort rousing himself.
'Now then, cousin Doll, let me carve you a second portion of the pasty; or,
mayhap, the wing of this roast pullet will suit your dainty appetite
better.'

Dorothy pouted.

'I have not such vulgar appetites as some folk. Nay, I thank you, cousin,
I will but taste a little whipped cream with a sweet biscuit.'

George piled up a mountain of frothy cream on one of the silver plates,
which were the pride and glory of his mother. The wooden trenchers were
used for the heavier viands; but these silver plates were brought out in
honour of guests, for the sweets or fruit which always came at the
conclusion of the repast.

These silver plates were kept brightly burnished, and Lucy, as she saw
herself reflected in hers, said, laughing,--

'It is pleasant to eat off mirrors--that is to say when what we see there
is pleasant.'

Madam Ratcliffe, although full of satisfaction to have her 'household gods'
admired, concealed it, and said, with an inclination of her head towards
Dorothy,--

'It is no novel thing for you to eat off silver, but I dare to say it is
the first time Mistress Lucy has done so.'

'That may be true, madam,' Lucy said--she was never at a loss for a
rejoinder--'but, methinks, I shall soon eat off silver every day an' I
choose to do it.'

'How so?' asked Mistress Ratcliffe; but the moment the question was asked,
she repented showing any curiosity about it, and made a diversion to
prevent a reply by suddenly breaking into admiration of the lace which
trimmed Dorothy Ratcliffe's bodice.

'It is Flemish point, sure; and did it not descend to you, Doll, from your
grandmother? I have a passion for old lace; and these sapphires of your
brooch are of fine water. Now, shall we repair to the parlour, and you,
Dorothy, will discourse some sweet music on your mandoline.'

The parlour was a dark room, with oak panels, and a heavy beam across the
ceiling. The floor was polished oak, which was slippery to unwary feet. The
open fireplace was filled by a large beau-pot filled with a posy of flowing
shrubs and long grass and rushes.

Rushes were strewn on the raised floor of the square bay window. A
spinning-wheel stood there, and the stool of carved oak, where Mistress
Ratcliffe sat when at her work, that she might have an eye to any who came
in at the gate, and perhaps catch one of the serving-maids gossiping with a
passer-by.

There was a settle in one corner of the parlour, and a cupboard with
shelves in a recess in the thick wall. Here the silver was kept, and some
curious old figures which had been, like the plate, handed down from the
ancestors of whom Mistress Ratcliffe was so proud.

In another recess were a few books, in heavy vellum bindings--Tyndale's
translation of the Bible, with silver clasps; and some dull sermons,
roughly bound, with an early edition of the Boke of Chess; the prayer-book
of Edward the Sixth, and some smaller and insignificant volumes, completed
Mistress Ratcliffe's library.

Mistress Ratcliffe did not concern herself with the awakening life of these
remarkable times in literature and culture.

It was nothing to her that numerous poets and authors, from Edmund Spenser
to many humbler craftsmen of the pen, were busy translating from the
Italian the tales of Boccaccio, or the Latin of Virgil.

The horizon had not yet widened to the small landed proprietors of these
days, and education, as we understand the word, was confined to the few,
and had not reached the people to whom the concerns of everyday life were
all-important. Women like Mistress Ratcliffe could often scarcely write
their own names, and read slowly and with difficulty the psalms in their
prayer-book, or the lessons of the Church in their Bible.

Spelling was eccentric, even in the highest circles, as many letters still
preserved in family archives prove, and was made to suit the ear and eye of
the writer, without reference to rule or form.

The evening passed somewhat slowly. There was an evident restraint upon
every one present.

Dorothy's performance on the mandoline did not elicit much praise, except
from Mistress Ratcliffe, who was annoyed that George should seat himself on
the settle, by Lucy's side, and encourage her to talk, instead of listening
while his cousin sang a melancholy ditty, in anything but a musical voice.

When Dorothy had finished, she laid down the mandoline in a pet, and
yawning, said,--

'I am weary after my long ride from Tunbridge, Aunt Ratcliffe. I pray you
forgive me if I retire early to bed.'

'Nay, Doll, you must have a cup of spiced wine ere you go, we cannot spare
you yet.'

'It is plain I am not wanted, so I can well be spared,' was the reply, with
a disagreeable laugh and a jerk of the head in the direction of the settle.

Lucy now sprang up, saying,--

'I, too, must crave leave to bid you good evening, Mistress Ratcliffe. I
have to settle plans with my sister before I sleep to-night, and the
evening shadows are falling.'

'If you must leave us, Mistress Forrester,' Mistress Ratcliffe said
stiffly, 'I may as well inform you, with regret, that the plan proposed by
my sons for asking you to bear me company to London in a useful capacity,
cannot be fulfilled. I take my niece with me, and two serving-men on the
second horse, hence--'

'Oh! madam,' Lucy said, 'there is no need of excusations. I go to London in
the next week as waiting-woman to my lady the Countess of Pembroke. It may
be that I shall see you there, and I shall be sure to know you and Mistress
Dorothy, and make you my proper reverence, even if you have forgotten me.'

'The impudent little hussy!' Mistress Ratcliffe murmured, but she retained
her feelings, and said,--

'It is fortunate for you, Mistress Forrester, that you will be under due
control in London, for in good sooth you will need it. If you must go, good
evening.'

Lucy turned at the door and made a profound curtsey, then, drawing her
kerchief closer to her throat, she left the room, George following.

'I don't set much store by Mistress Forrester's manner, Aunt Ratcliffe,'
Dorothy said; 'an ill-bred country child, who, of course, is ignorant, so
we will pardon her.'

'Ignorant, yes,' Mistress Ratcliffe said, 'but her pretty face.'

'Pretty!' Dorothy screamed, 'Pretty! Nay, aunt, you cannot call that
baby-faced chit pretty. No air; no breeding; mere dairymaid's beauty. It
makes me laugh to think how proud she was of her fine gown and cap, which
only showed her awkward gait the more.' And Mistress Dorothy fingered her
Flemish lace and the string of beads round her short, thick neck, with
profound belief in her own charms.

If Lucy's beauty was that of a milkmaid, Dorothy's was decidedly of a
different character. Her complexion was sallow and pale; her hair, which
was by no means abundant, was of the sandy hue, which she tried to persuade
herself was like the Queen's. Her eyes were of a greenish colour, and
deeply set under a heavy forehead, and her figure was angular and
ungraceful.

Fine feathers do not always make a fine bird, and Dorothy Ratcliffe,
although with what in those days was considered to be a fortune at her
back, did not find fervent suitors for her favour. She was, therefore, very
ready to fall in with Mistress Ratcliffe's wishes, and take pains to
ingratiate herself with George, failing Humphrey, whose position as one of
Mr Sidney's esquires, made him the more desirable of the two brothers.

Dorothy Ratcliffe was the child of George's uncle, who was a recluse living
at Tunbridge. He was a scholar and a pedant, and concerned himself but
little about his only child, whose fortune was inherited from her mother.

Marriages in those days were generally settled for the people principally
concerned, with or without their consent, as it happened, and Master
Ratcliffe and George's mother had a sort of tacit understanding with each
other that Dorothy should take herself and her fortune to Hillbrow Place.

Dorothy was not unwilling to find herself mistress there, but she had
always a lingering hope that Humphrey would at last be a victim to her
charms, and then it would be easy to throw George over.

But things did not look very promising, and Dorothy asked, in an irritable
tone, before she parted with her aunt for the night,--

'Is Humphrey so taken up with the grand folk that he cannot find the time
to pay his dutiful respects to you, aunt?'

'He was here late the last evening,' Mistress Ratcliffe said, 'and is, with
George, anxious to furnish Mr Sidney with the pick of the horses in the
stable. Humphrey can scarce stir from Mr Sidney.'

'So it seems,' Dorothy said. 'Methinks, where there's a will there's a way;
but we shall have his company in London.'

'Yes, and George's also. You will favour my poor boy's suit, Doll.'

'Your poor boy! nay, aunt, he is not worthy of pity, when he wins favour
from a peerless beauty like Mistress Forrester. But let be, it will not
break my heart if he gives you this fair country maid for your daughter,
who has not--so I have heard--so much as a brass farthing to call her own.'

Deeply chagrined, and with an uneasy suspicion that Dorothy might be right
in what she said, Mistress Ratcliffe left her niece to repose, saying to
herself, 'She has a tongue and a temper of her own, but we will soon tame
her when we get her here.'




CHAPTER IV

THE HAWK AND THE BIRD

    'So doth the fox the lamb destroy we see,
     The lion fierce, the beaver, roe or gray,
     The hawk the fowl, the greater wrong the less,
     The lofty proud the lowly poor oppress.'

    JOHN DAVIES, 1613.


When George left Lucy at the door of Ford Place, she ran quickly through
the kitchen, where Mistress Forrester was resting on the settle after the
labours of the day.

Things had not gone well with the sick lambs, both were dead, and one of
the cart-horses had gone lame, and the eggs of the pea-hen were addled.

These circumstances were not likely to sweeten Mistress Forrester's temper,
and Lucy, who never bore malice, received a sharp answer in reply to her
inquiries as to the condition of the lambs.

'They are dead, and much you care, flaunting off with your lover instead of
turning your hand to help at home.'

'I could not have saved the lambs' lives,' Lucy said, 'but I am sorry they
are dead. I am sorry when any creature dies.'

'I dare say! Be off to bed, for I am locking up in a minute.'

'Where is Mary?' Lucy asked.

'A-bed. That boy has cut his little finger, or some such thing. Lor'! she
was like to swoon with terror when she saw the blood; the child himself was
not such a coward.'

Lucy hastened upstairs, and found Mary by the window in her favourite seat.
A book lay open on her knee, and, when Lucy came in, she held up her hand,
and, pointing to the bed, said,--

'Hush! he is asleep.'

'What has happened?' Lucy said. 'Is the boy hurt?'

'He cut his hand with an old knife, and the blood poured forth. Oh, Lucy,
if aught were to befall him, I scarce dare think of what would become of
me.'

Lucy thought of the strange encounter she had had with the man on the hill
path, and wondered whether it were kind to raise her sister's fears about
Ambrose.

'Come and sit by me, sweetheart,' Mary said, making room for her sister on
the deep window seat. 'I am troubled to-night with a shadow of coming
grief. Sure I have had enough, and I am young yet. Twenty-five is young,
though I dare to say I seem old to you, little sister. I am perplexed in
mind, and tossed about with doubt. Can you think of me as a merry,
light-hearted maiden, donning my smartest gown to go at Lady Mary's bidding
to the Park, where great festivities were held in honour of the Queen's
visit? Ah, child, it was then soft words and flattery turned my head, and
I--well, I have rued it to this hour. Thus, dear Lucy, when I think of your
going forth in my Lady Pembroke's train, I fear for you. I will pray also,
and pray God may watch over you.'

'Then I may go,' Lucy said. 'I may really go. Oh, Mary, Mary, I am so
happy!'

Then, remembering her encounter with the stranger she said,--

'I met a man on the hill path as I went to Hillbrow. He scared me a little
bit, but George Ratcliffe came up, and he made off and like a ghost
vanished.'

'A man!' Mary exclaimed, in a low voice of suppressed fear. 'What man?'

'He was clad in a long cloak, with a cap pulled over his brow. He had evil
eyes--dark, piercing eyes.'

Mary Gifford's clasp of her young sister tightened convulsively, and her
heart throbbed so that Lucy could feel it as she pressed her closer and
closer.

'What did he say to you, this strange man?'

'He said he would fain see little Ambrose, and bid me bring him to the
stile where he met me, that he might look at him. He said he would call a
curse down on me if I refused. He looked dreadful as he spoke. And then
George came. But, Mary--'

For Mary had sprung to her feet, and, with hands clasped and eyes dilated
with terror, she stood like one struck down by some sudden blow.

'Promise, swear, Lucy, you will never take the child outside the fence on
the hill side. Swear, Lucy.'

Lucy was frightened by her sister's vehemence, and said,--

'Yes, I promise. Oh, Mary, do not look like that. Do you know the man?'

'Know him! know him! Nay. How should I?' Then she said, after a pause,
'Hush! we shall wake the boy. Let us talk no more to-night. Go to your bed,
child; it is late, and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow is Sunday--I will go down
with you to the church, and await my Lady Pembroke by the lych gate, and
you shall have your desire, and God keep you, and bless you.'

Lucy quickly recovered her spirits; her heart was too full of delighted
anticipation to have room for any prolonged fear about her sister, though
her pale, terror-struck face, seen in the twilight, and her agonised appeal
to her to swear what she asked, made her say, as she lay down on her low
truckle bed in the little attic chamber next her sister's,--

'Sure Mary must know something of that man. Perhaps he was a boon companion
of her wicked husband. Ah, me! it would be a different world if all men
were brave and good and noble like--'

Before the name had taken shape on her lips, Lucy was asleep, and in her
dreams there were no dark strangers with cruel black eyes and sinister
smiles, but goodly knights, in glistening armour, riding out against their
adversaries, and goodlier and nobler than the rest, before whose lance all
others fell, while the air rang with the shouts of victory, was Mr Philip
Sidney.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sunday morning dawned fair and bright. The bells of Penshurst church were
chiming for matins, when Mary Gifford, leading her boy by the hand, stood
with Lucy under the elm tree by the timbered houses by the lych gate,
returning the kindly greetings of many neighbours and acquaintances.

Overhead the great boughs of the elm tree were quivering in the soft
breeze. The buds, scarcely yet unfolded into leaf, were veiled with tender
green, while a sheaf of twigs on the trunk were clothed in emerald, in
advance of the elder branches, and making the sombre bole alive with
beauty, as the sunbeams sought them out, and cast their tiny, flickering
shadows on the ground.

The village people always waited in the churchyard, or by the lych gate
till the household from the castle came through the door leading from the
Park to the church, and this morning their appearance was looked forward to
with more than usual interest. Not only was Lady Mary expected, but the
Countess of Pembroke and her ladies, with Mr Sidney, and his young
brothers, Robert and Thomas, were known to be of the party.

[Illustration: THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST.]

Sir Henry Sidney was seldom able to leave Ludlow for a peaceful sojourn in
his beautiful home, and Lady Mary had sometimes to make the journey from
Wales without him, to see that all things in the house were well ordered,
and to do her best to make the scanty income stretch out to meet the
necessary claims upon it.

When two of the gentlemen in attendance came to the gate to hold it open
for the ladies of the party to pass, the throng assembled in the churchyard
moved up near the porch, and, as Lady Mary came in sight, curtseys from the
women and reverences from the men testified to the esteem in which she was
held.

Lady Pembroke came next, smiling and gracious. On her sweet face were no
lines of the care which marked her mother's, and she looked what she was, a
happy wife and mother.

By her side was Mr Philip Sidney, closely followed by Robert and Thomas,
who imitated his courteous bearing, and doffed their caps and bowed their
heads in acknowledgment of their people's greeting.

The Sidneys were lords of Penshurst in every sense, and the loyalty of
their tenants and dependants was unquestioned. It is not too much to say
that Philip Sidney was regarded with admiration and respect, seldom
equalled, by these simple people in the Kentish village, who felt a right
in him, and a pride, which was perhaps sweeter to him than all the
adulation he won in Elizabeth's Court.

When the Sidneys' large pew was filled with its occupants, the bell
stopped, and the rest of the congregation hastened to fill the benches in
the body of the church.

The service was conducted after the Anglican form of worship, but differed
in some respects from that of the present day. The Puritans of those times
were making every effort to get rid of what, in their eyes, were useless
forms and ceremonies, and in many places in England dissension was rife,
and the dread of Popish innovations, or rather a return to Popish
practices, was mingled with fierce hatred of Papists, and apprehension of
their designs against the life of the Queen.

The Sidneys were staunch adherents of the reformed faith, and Philip Sidney
was the staunchest of all. He could never forget the atrocities of that
summer night in Paris, when the treachery of the king and his mother
resulted in the massacre of innocent men and women, whose only crime was
their devotion to the faith for which they died.

Philip Sidney had, as we know, protested with bold sincerity against the
Queen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou, urging the danger to the
Protestant cause in England, if the Queen should persist in her
determination.

Now several years had passed, and he had regained Elizabeth's favour, and
had withdrawn his opposition.

The French Ambassadors, who were to arrive in England in the following
week, were to be entertained with grand feasts and games, in which he and
his chief friend, Fulke Greville, were to take a leading part.

Perhaps no one in that congregation knew or dreamed that their ideal
knight, as he stood up in his place amongst them, with his thoughtful face
turned towards the nave of the church, had his heart filled with misgivings
as to the part he had taken in this matter, and with still deeper
misgivings as to the position in which he found himself with the only woman
whom he loved and worshipped.

While the good clergyman was preaching a somewhat dull sermon from the
words, 'Fear God, honour the King,' following the particular line
acceptable in those days, by enforcing loyalty and devotion to the reigning
sovereign as the whole duty of man, Philip, leaning back in his seat, his
head thrown back, and that wistful, far-away look in his eyes, which
enhanced their charm, was all unconscious of what was passing around him,
so absorbed was he with his own thoughts.

He roused himself when the first words of a psalm were sung by the village
choir in Sternhold and Hopkins' version, and bending over the book, which
his sister Mary had opened, pointing her finger to the first line, he
raised his musical voice and sang with her the rugged lines which called
upon 'All people that on earth do dwell, to sing to the Lord with cheerful
voice.'

Then the clergyman pronounced the blessing, and the congregation dispersed,
the village people to their homes, the Sidneys towards the gate leading
into the pleasance, which lay on the side of the house nearest to the
church.

Mary Gifford held back, in spite of Lucy's entreaties to her to go forward.

'They will all have passed in, Mary,' she exclaimed in an agony of
excitement. 'Were we not bidden to see the Countess by Mr Sidney himself.'

But Mary was always modest and retiring, and she stood with Ambrose and her
sister awaiting a summons.

It came at last. Humphrey Ratcliffe was at her side, saying,--

'My Lady of Pembroke would fain speak with Lucy. Come forward with me.'

As they followed Humphrey through the gateway in the wall, Lucy could
scarcely conceal her agitation.

What should she say? What if Lady Pembroke thought her too young and too
ignorant? She had pictured to herself that Mr Sidney would himself have led
her to his sister, but he was gone out of sight, and she heard one of the
gentlemen say to Humphrey,--

'Sir Fulke Greville has arrived with a message from the Queen. Mr Sidney
has gone round to meet him.'

'Ill news, I wonder?' Humphrey said.

'Nay, only some trifle about the tourney, belike a change in the colour of
the armour, or some such folly.'

Mary and her little son and Lucy were now standing at the end of the
terrace walk of smooth turf, which is raised some feet above the wide
pleasance below.

'Await the Countess's pleasure here,' Humphrey said. 'She is engaged in
talk with Lady Mary, she will send to summon you when she sees fit.'

The ladies and gentlemen in attendance on Lady Mary Sidney and her daughter
were threading the narrow paths of the pleasance and chatting gaily with
each other, the bright dresses of the ladies, rivalling the colour of the
spring flowers in the beds, while the jewelled hilts of the gentlemen's
swords sparkled in the sunshine.

From the trees in the Park came the monotonous note of the unseen cuckoo,
while the thrushes and blackbirds every now and then sent forth a burst of
song, though it was nearly nigh noontide, when the birds are often silent,
as if, in the general rejoicing of the spring, all living things must take
part.

The picturesque side of the home of the Sidneys, which faces this
pleasance, was in shadow, and made a background to the gay scene, which
accentuated the brilliant effect of the gay throng below it.

On the terrace Mary Gifford stood in her black garments, relieved by a long
white veil, holding her impatient boy by the hand, while Lucy, no less
impatient, was hoping every minute that she should receive a message from
Lady Pembroke. The group at last caught the attention of Lady Mary, who had
been in earnest conversation with her daughter.

'Ah! there is Mistress Gifford,' she exclaimed, 'and the little sister of
whom Philip spoke as suitable to be one of your waiting-women. Let us
hasten to speak with them. They have been, I fear, waiting too long.'

'Yes; it was heedless of me to forget them; but there is the bell sounding
for dinner in the hall, shall we not bid them sit down at the board? They
must needs be weary after their long walk, and the service, to say naught
of the sermon,' Lady Pembroke added, laughing.

'Hush, then; I see the good minister coming towards us. He means well, and
is a godly man.'

'I do not doubt it, sweet mother; but let us mount the steps to the
terrace, and show some courtesy to those waiting our pleasure there.'

'They are coming towards us, Mary. Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, 'come forward and
meet them.'

'Yes, mother,' Ambrose said fretfully, dragging at his mother's hand. 'I
thought I was to see Mr Sidney, and that he would let me ride again. I am
so weary and so hungry.'

Lady Pembroke soon tripped up the stone steps, Lady Mary following more
slowly. Lady Pembroke had all the graceful courtesy which distinguished her
brother; and that high-bred manner which, quite apart from anything like
patronage, always sets those who may be on a lower rung of the social
ladder at ease in casual intercourse.

[Illustration: PENSHURST CASTLE, FROM THE PARK.]

There are many who aspire to be thought 'aristocratic' in their manners,
and who may very successfully imitate the dress and surroundings of the
old noblesse. But this gift, which showed so conspicuously in the family of
the Sidneys, is an inheritance, and cannot be really copied. It is so easy
to patronise from a lofty vantage ground, so difficult to make those below
it feel that the distance is not thought of as an impassable gulf, but is
bridged over by the true politeness which lies not on the surface, but has
its root deep in the consideration for others, which finds expression in
forgetfulness of self, and in remembering the feelings and tastes of those
with whom we are brought in contact.

Like the mists of morning under the warm beams of the sun, Mary Gifford's
restraint and shy reserve vanished when Lady Pembroke exclaimed,--

'Ah, here is the little knight that Philip told me of. See, mother, he must
be a playfellow for your Thomas.'

Lady Mary was somewhat breathless. She could not climb the steep, stone
stairs as quickly as her daughter.

'Mistress Gifford must stay and dine with us, Mary, and then Thomas shall
show him the pictures in the new book Philip has brought him from London.'

'Are there pictures of horses and knights, madam?' Ambrose asked.

'They are Bible pictures, boy, but there are warriors amongst them,
doubtless--Joshua and Samson, and, it may be, others.'

The big bell which, to this day, is heard far and near at Penshurst, was
still making its loud, sonorous clang, and Lady Mary, taking Ambrose by the
hand led him along the terrace, his mother at the other side, and Lucy
following with Lady Pembroke.

Instead of immediately beginning to discuss the probability of Lucy's being
placed in her household, Lady Pembroke said,--

'I have not seen you for some time. You have grown apace since my marriage.
Yet my brother, when he spoke of you, called you Mistress Gifford's little
sister. You are taller than I am, methinks.'

Lucy's face glowed with pleasure, as Lady Pembroke said this.

'And most like you have yet to grow a few inches.'

'Nay, madam; I am near sixteen.'

'And is sixteen too old to grow? I think not. It is the age to grow in
wisdom as well as in stature.'

'I would fain grow in the first, madam,' Lucy said, 'if only to please
Mary, who is so good to me--my only friend.'

'I forgot you have no mother, poor child.'

'Nay, madam; only a cross-grained stepmother. Mary bears her quips and
cranks like a saint. I cannot do so.'

'It is well to try to bear what you term quips and cranks. But we must
repair to the hall now,' Lady Pembroke said; and then, addressing a
gentlewoman who was standing at the lower end of the long table, she said,
'Mistress Crawley, be so good as to make room for Mistress Lucy Forrester
at your side. She dines here to-day with Mistress Gifford.'

Mary already had her place pointed out to her, a little higher up the board
with Ambrose; and the Countess of Pembroke, with a smile, said, as she
passed to the gentleman who presided,--

'See that the young knight has sweet things enough to please his palate;
and be sure, Master Pearson, that Mistress Gifford is well attended by the
serving-men.'

The family and principal guests sat at the upper end of the hall, and
amongst them was Mr Sidney's lifelong friend, Sir Fulke Greville.

There was a few moments' silence, when the chaplain, raising his hand, said
a Latin grace; and then there was a clatter of trenchers, and the quick
passing to and fro of the serving-men, and the sound of many voices as the
meal proceeded.

That hospitable board of the Sidneys was always well spread, and to-day, at
the upper end, Lady Mary had provided the best of viands for the
entertainment of her daughter, and of her favourite son and his friend.

Lady Mary's face was shining with motherly pride as she looked at Philip
and her fair daughter, who joined with keen delight in the conversation in
which the two friends took the lead--her quick and ready appreciation of
the subjects under discussion winning a smile from her brother, who
continually referred to her, if on any point he and his friend held
different opinions. Indeed, the Countess of Pembroke was not far behind her
brother in intellectual gifts. The French and Italian literature, in which
he delighted, were familiar to her also; and the _Divina Commedia_ and the
_Vita Nuova_ were, we may well believe, amongst her favourite works. The
great Poet of the Unseen must have had an especial charm for the lovers of
literature in those times of awakening.

The mystic and allegorical style, the quaint and grotesque imagery in which
Dante delighted, must have touched an answering chord in the hearts of
scholars like Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke.

That Philip Sidney was deeply versed in the story of Beatrice--following
her with devout admiration, as her lover showed her in her girlish beauty,
and then in her matured and gracious womanhood--we may safely conclude.

At the time of which we write, he was making a gallant fight against
defeat, in the struggle between love and duty, striving to keep the
absorbing passion for his Stella within the bounds which the laws of honour
and chivalry demanded, at whatever cost. No one can read the later stanzas,
which are amongst the most beautiful in _Stella and Astrophel_, without
feeling that, deep as was his love, his sense of honour was deeper still.

Nor is it unreasonable to feel that, as he followed the great Master
through those mysterious realms, guided by the lady of his love, pure and
free from the fetters of earthly passion, Philip Sidney would long with
unutterable longing that his love might be also as wings to bear him
heavenward, like that of Dante for his Beatrice, whose name is for all time
immortal like his own.

When the grace was said, the company at the upper end of the great hall
rose, and left it by the staircase which led to the private apartments of
the spacious house.

The ladies passed out first, and the Countess of Pembroke, turning at the
foot of the stairs, said,--

'Mistress Crawley, bid Lucy Forrester to follow us with Mistress Gifford
and the boy.'

But Lucy was thinking more of Mr Philip Sidney than of her summons to
attend his sister. She was hoping for a smile from him, and felt a thrill
of disappointment as he put his arm through Sir Fulke Greville's and turned
away to the principal entrance with his friend.

Lucy's eyes followed them, and she was roused from her dream by a sharp tap
on her shoulder.

'Did you not hear my lady's order, child? Methinks you will need to mend
your manners if you wish to enter her service.'

Lucy's face grew crimson, and she gave Mistress Crawley a look, which, if
she had dared, she would have accompanied by a saucy word.

Mary Gifford, who was waiting for her sister, said gently,--

'We are to follow quickly, hasten, Lucy, Mistress Crawley is waiting.'

Lucy tossed her head and did not hurry herself even then. She had many
admirers in the neighbourhood besides George Ratcliffe, and one of them
said to him,--

'It is a shame if old Mother Crawley has that little beauty as her servant.
She will trample on her and make her life a burden to her, or I am
mistaken.'

George resented any interference about Lucy from another man, and he
greatly objected to hear her called 'a little beauty;' for George's love
for her was that of a respectful worshipper at the shrine of a divinity,
and he could not brook anything like familiar disrespect in others.

'Mistress Forrester,' he said, 'is likely to win favour wherever she may
go, and she will serve the Countess of Pembroke rather than Mistress
Crawley.'

A provoking laugh was the answer to this.

'You can know naught of the life of a household like my Lady Pembroke's.
The head waiting-woman is supreme, and the underlings are her slaves. They
may sit and stitch tapestry till they are half blind, and stoop over the
lace pillow till they grow crooked, for all my lady knows about it. Ask
Mistress Betty here, she knows what a life Mistress Crawley can lead her
slaves.'

The person addressed as Mistress Betty was beginning to answer, when George
turned away to go to the stables, where he thought Mr Sidney had probably
preceded him with Sir Fulke Greville, to examine the points of the two
fresh steeds he had purchased for the tournament. But he could see nothing
of Mr Sidney, and, meeting his brother Humphrey, he heard from him that he
had walked away down the avenue with Sir Fulke Greville, apparently in
earnest conversation, and that they would not care to be disturbed.

George lingered about disconsolately, and at last left the Park and went
towards the river, which he knew Mary Gifford and Lucy must cross on their
homeward way. At least he would have the chance of mounting guard over
Lucy, and be present if the man who had so lightly spoken of her should be
so presumptuous as to follow her.

After long waiting, George saw Lucy and her sister and Ambrose coming out
of the gateway leading from the Park, and he was well satisfied to see that
his brother Humphrey, and no other squire, was in attendance.

Ambrose was tired and a little querulous, and dragged heavily at his
mother's hand. Humphrey offered to carry the boy, but he resented that as
an indignity, and murmured that he had not seen Mr Sidney, and he wanted to
ride his horse again.

'Mr Sidney has other matters on hand than to look after a tired, cross
boy,' his mother said. 'Come, my son, quicken your pace somewhat, or we
shall not be at home for supper. It was a grand treat for you to be
entertained by my Lady Mary's sons, and you should be in high good humour,'
she continued.

But poor little Ambrose kept up the same murmured discontent, of which the
burden was,--

'I want to ride on Mr Sidney's horse,' and he dragged back more
persistently than ever, till his mother's fair face flushed with the
exertion of pulling him up the steep hill, over which the low westering sun
was casting a glow, which was hot for the time of year.

Humphrey at last settled the matter by lifting Ambrose, in spite of his
struggles, upon his shoulders, and saying,--

'You will never be a true knight, boy, like Mr Sidney, if you growl and
scold at trifles. Fie, for shame, see how weary you have made your mother.'

'I don't love you,' the child said, 'and I hate to be carried like a babe.'

'Then do not behave as a babe,' Mary said, 'but thank Master Humphrey for
his patience and for sparing you the climb uphill. If you love me, Ambrose,
be amenable and good.'

The appeal had its effect. The child sat quietly on his perch on Humphrey's
broad shoulder, and soon forgot his vexation in watching the rapid
evolutions of a hawk in chase of a flight of small birds, one of which at
last was made its prey.

'See, see, mother; hark, that is the cry of the little bird, the hawk has
got it.'

Mary Gifford stopped, and, looking up, saw the hawk in full swing, not many
hundred yards distant, with the bird in its beak, fluttering and struggling
in vain.

'Ah!' she said, with a shudder, 'the weak is ever the prey of the strong,
Master Humphrey,' and then she stopped.

He looked down on her troubled face with intense sympathy.

'Master Humphrey, the Countess of Pembroke and Lady Mary said they would
fain make my boy a page in attendance. Oh! I cannot, I dare not part with
him, he is my all--my all.'

'Nor shall you part from him,' Humphrey said. 'No one could wish to force
you to do so.'

'No one--no one; but if a trap were laid, if a net were spread, if a
ruthless hawk pursues a defenceless bird, the end is gained at last!'

Humphrey could not follow her meaning, and he said,--

'I do not understand. What do you fear?'

'Oh! what do I fear? Perchance if you had an idol, you would think of the
words of Holy Scripture, that such should be utterly abolished, but,' she
continued, changing her tone and speaking cheerfully, 'see how Lucy lags
behind, poor child! Methinks her heart misgives her as the parting is now
certain. She is to enter on her duties when the Countess goes to London
with Lady Mary Sidney, one day in this week. May God keep her safe. You
will be about the Court with Mr Sidney, and you will keep a watch over her.
I know you will.'

'Yes, as you know full well, I will serve you in that or in any way, nor
ask for my guerdon till such time as you may see good to grant it to me,
your friend always, Mistress Gifford, your lover, your humble suitor,
when--'

'Hush,' she said, laying her hand on his arm, 'such words may not pass
between you and me. Did I not tell you, did I not warn you that so it must
be. And now, my little son,' she continued, 'get down from your high perch,
if Master Humphrey is so good as to put you on your feet, for we are nearly
at home.'

Ambrose, as soon as his feet touched the ground, ran off at full speed,
and, turning into the lane, was hidden from sight for a few moments. It was
scarcely more, but his mother rushed after him, calling him by name to
stop.

But the child was a swift runner, and Mary, putting her hands to her side,
said,--

'Master Ratcliffe, pursue him. Don't let him run out of sight, I--I cannot
follow.'

It needed only a few of Humphrey Ratcliffe's long, quick strides to
overtake Ambrose, and seize him by the arm.

'What a plague you are to your mother, child; first you can't walk, and
then you run off like a young colt.'

'There was a black man in the hedge yonder that made me run so fast.'

'A black man! away with such folly. The black man is the stump of that old
tree covered with ivy, so you are a coward, after all.'

Mary had come up now, breathless.

'Ambrose, Ambrose, why did you run like that?'

'I saw a black man,' the child repeated, 'and I wanted to get to the gate.'

Mary said not a word, but, taking the boy's hand, held it fast, and went
towards the house.




CHAPTER V

RESISTANCE

     'God giveth heavenly grace unto such as call unto Him with
      outstretched hands and humble heart; never wanting to those that
      want not to themselves.'--SIR T. WILSON, 1554.


The two brothers, Humphrey and George Ratcliffe, left Mary Gifford and Lucy
at the gate of Ford Place.

From a barn came the sound of voices singing a psalm, in not very musical
tones.

Mistress Forrester was engaging in a Puritan service with a few of the
chosen ones, who would not join in what they deemed the Popish ceremonies
of the church in the valley. These stern dissenters from the reformed
religion were keeping alive that spark which, fanned into a flame some
fifty years later, was to sweep through the land and devastate churches,
and destroy every outward sign in crucifix, and pictured saint in fair
carved niche, and image of seer or king, which were in their eyes the token
of that Babylon which was answerable for the blood of the faithful
witnesses for Christ!

The stern creed of the followers of Calvin had a charm for natures like
Mistress Forrester, who, secure in her own salvation, could afford to look
down on those outside the groove in which she walked; and with neither
imagination nor any love of the beautiful, she felt a gruesome satisfaction
in what was ugly in her own dress and appearance, and a contempt for others
who had eyes to see the beauty to which she was blind.

Lucy had come home in a very captious mood, and declaring she was weary and
had a pain in her head; she said she needed no supper, and went up to her
little attic chamber in the roof of the house.

Mary Gifford laid aside her long veil, and made a bowl of milk and brown
bread ready for her boy; and then, while he ate it, pausing between every
spoonful to ask his mother some question, she prepared the board for the
guests, whom she knew her stepmother would probably bring in from the barn
when the long prayer was over.

Ambrose was always full of inquiries on many subjects, and this evening he
had much to say about the picture-book Master Tom Sidney showed him--the
man in the lions' den, and why they did not eat him up; the men in a big
fire that were not burned, because God kept them safe. And then he returned
to the hawk and the little bird, and wondered how many more the cruel hawk
had eaten for his supper; and, finally, wished God would take care of the
little birds, and let the hawk live on mice like the old white owl in the
barn. The child's prattle was not heeded as much as sometimes, and Mary's
answers were not so satisfactory as usual. He was like his Aunt Lucy,
tired, and scarcely as much pleased with his day as he had expected to be;
and, finally, his mother carried him off to bed, and, having folded his
hands, made him repeat a little prayer, and then he murmured out in a
sing-song a verse Ned the cowboy had taught him:--

    Four corners to my bed,
    Four angels at my head;
    Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
    Bless the bed I lie upon.

Almost before the last word was said, the white lids closed over the violet
eyes, and Ambrose was asleep. Mary stood over him for a minute with clasped
hands.

'Ah! God keep him safe, nor suffer him to stray where danger lurks,' she
said.

Voices below and the sound of heavy feet warned her that the meeting in the
barn was over, and her stepmother would require her presence.

The little company which had met in the barn was composed of labourers and
shepherds, with one or two of the better sort of work-people holding
superior positions on the estate of the Sidneys.

Mistress Forrester asked a tall man with a very nasal twang to bless the
humble fare set before them, and a very long prayer followed before the
benches were drawn closer to the board, and the large bowls of bread and
milk, flavoured with strips of onion, were attacked by the hungry brethren
with large, unwieldy, wooden spoons.

Mary waited on the guests, and, filling a large earthen cup with cider,
passed it round. One man who took a very prolonged pull at it, wiping his
mouth with the flap of his short homespun cloak, said, in a mysterious
whisper,--

'There's a nest of Papists hiding in Tunbridge, and one of those emissaries
of the Evil One is lurking about here, Mistress Forrester. Let us all be on
guard.'

'Ay,' said another, 'I've seen him. He wears the priest's garb, and he is
plotting mischief. What can he want here?'

'He can work us no harm; the tables are turned now, and the Papists are
getting their deserts,' Mistress Forrester said.

'I wouldn't trust them,' said the first speaker. 'They would as lief set
fire to this house or yon barn as to a stake where the blessed martyrs were
bound. You looked scared, Mistress Gifford. But, if all we hear is true,
you rather favour the Papists.'

Mary rallied, with a great effort.

'Nay,' she said; 'I do not favour their creed or their persecuting ways,
but I may no less feel pain that they should be hunted, and, as I know, in
many cases, homeless and dying of hunger.'

'Mary consorts with grand folks down at the great house,' Mistress
Forrester said, 'who look with as little favour on us, or less, than on the
Papists. For my part, I see but small difference between the bowings, and
scrapings and mummeries practised in the church down yonder, and the mass
in the Papists' worship.'

'You are near right, Mistress Forrester; and those who are aiding and
abetting the Queen in her marriage with a Popish prince have much to answer
for.'

'Which Popish prince?' asked one of the more ignorant of the assembly.

'Is not the man, Philip Sidney, who is set up in these parts as a god,
getting ready to take a share in the tourney which is to do honour to the
men sent by the brother of the murderous French king?'

'I never heard tell on't,' gasped an old dame. 'Dear heart! what will the
country come to?'

'_Ruin!_' was the answer. 'And tell me not a man is godly who has ordered
the Maypole to be set up this coming first of May, and gives countenance by
his presence on the Sabbath day to the wrestling games of the village
louts, and the playing of bowls in the green at the back of the hostelry.
But let us praise the Lord we are delivered from the bondage of Satan, and
have neither part nor lot in these evil doings and vain sports, working
days or Sabbath!'

Fervent Amens were uttered, and, wrapt in the mantle of self-satisfaction
that they were not as other men, the company gathered in the kitchen of
Ford Manor broke up, and, in the gathering twilight, dispersed to their
homes.

Mary Gifford hastened to put away the remnants of the supper, and reserved
the broken fragments for the early breakfast of the poultry the next
morning.

Mistress Forrester did not seem inclined for conversation, and yawned
audibly, saying she was tired out and it was time to lock up for the night.

'The days are lengthening now,' Mary said. 'I do not feel inclined for bed.
Leave me, mother, to make all safe.'

'As you will,' was the reply. 'I'll hear what you have to say about Lucy
to-morrow. Jabez Coleman says we are sending her to the jaws of the lion by
this move, and that she will never return, or like you--'

'Spare me, mother!' Mary said. 'I cannot bear much more to-night.'

'Much more! Sure, Mary, you make an ado about nothing. What have you to
bear, I'd like to know, with a roof over your head, and your child fed and
clothed? Bear indeed!' and with a low, mocking laugh, Mistress Forrester
stumped with her heavy tread up the stairs which led to the upper floor
from the further end of the kitchen.

Mary went into the porch, and the peaceful landscape before her seemed to
quiet her troubled spirit. She was so keenly alive to all that was
beautiful in nature; her education had been imperfect, but she was open to
receive all impressions, and, during her short married life, she had been
brought into contact with the people who were attached to the Earl of
Leicester's household, and had read books which had quickened her poetic
taste and given a colour to her life.

It is difficult for those who live in these times to realise the fervour
with which the few books then brought within the reach of the people were
received by those who were hungry for self-culture. The Queen was an
accomplished scholar, and did her best to encourage the spread of
literature in the country. But though the tide had set in with an
ever-increasing flow, the flood had not as yet reached the women in Mary
Forrester's position. Thus, when she married Ambrose Gifford, a new world
was opened to her by such books as Surrey's _Translation of the Æneid_, and
Painter's _Tales from Boccaccio_. She had an excellent memory, and had
learned by heart Wyatt's _Translation of the Psalms_, and many parts of
Spenser's _Shepherd's Calendar_. This evening she took from the folds of
her gown a small book in a brown cover, which had been a gift to her that
very day from Mary, Countess of Pembroke.

It was the Psalms in English verse, which the brother and sister had
produced together in the preceding year when Philip Sidney, weary of the
Court, and burdened with the weight of his love for Stella, had soothed his
spirit by this joint work with his sister as they walked together in the
wide domain of Wilton, the home to which Mary Sidney went from her native
Penshurst, and which was scarcely less fair and beautiful than that which
she left to become the wife of the Earl of Pembroke.

It was at Wilton that _The Arcadia_ had its birth, and the description of
the fair country where Sir Philip Sidney and his sister placed the heroes
and heroines of the story may well answer as a description of both places,
as they write of proud heights, garnished with stately trees; and humble
valleys comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; the meadows
enamelled with all sorts of flowers; the fields garnished with roses, which
made the earth blush as bashful at its own beauty--with other imagery
which, after the lapse of more than three hundred years, shines out through
the tangled labyrinth of the story of _The Arcadia_, like golden threads,
the lustre of which time has no power to dim.

Mary Gifford has paid dearly for those five years spent in the world, which
was so far removed from the peace and seclusion of her native hills. And
now, as she sits in the porch, and opening the little book which had been
the gift that day from the Countess of Pembroke, she tried, in the dim
waning light, to read some verses from the thick page, which the lines
printed close in black letters made somewhat difficult. Presently the book
fell from her hand and she started to her feet, as there was a rustle near
and a soft tread of stealthy footsteps.

In another moment the tall black figure Lucy had spoken of stood before
her.

Her heart beat fast, and it needed all her courage not to cry aloud with
fear.

'What is your pleasure, sir?' she said.

The slouching hat was removed, and she saw before her her husband,--

'You thought I was dead; is it not so? I crave your pardon for being alive,
Mary.'

'I heard a rumour that you lived,' she replied; 'but why do you come hither
to torture me?'

'I have an errand, and I shall fulfil it. I am come hither for my son.'

'You come, then, on a bootless errand,' was the answer. 'No power in Heaven
and earth will make me surrender my child to your tender mercies.'

'We shall see,' was the cool reply. 'Hearken, Mary! I left the country
after that fray with the man you know of. They left me for dead, but I rose
and escaped. The man lay dead--that consoles me--his wife--'

'Do not go over the miserable wickedness of your life. You were covered
with dishonour, and you betrayed me. I would die sooner than give up my
child to you; you shall kill me first--'

'Nay, Mary, do not give vent to your hatred and abhorrence of me. Hearken!
I know I was a sinner, not worse than thousands, but I have sought the
shelter of the Holy Catholic Church, and I am absolved from my sins by
penance and fasting. The unhappy woman for whom I sinned is now a professed
nun in a convent. I shall never look on her face again. I have joined the
priests at Douay; one Dr Allan has the control of the school. It is there
I will take my son, and have him brought up in the Catholic faith.'

'Never!' Mary said. 'My son shall be trained in the Protestant faith, and I
will hold him, by God's grace, safe from your evil designs. Ah, Ambrose, be
not so pitiless; be merciful.'

'Pitiless! nay, it is you who are pitiless. You scout my penitence; you
scorn and spurn me, and you ask me, forsooth, to be merciful. I give you
your choice--commit the boy to my care within one week, or I will find
means to take him whether you will or no. I give you fair warning.'

'You have robbed me of peace and love, and all a woman counts dear. You
betrayed me and deserted me; you slew the husband of the woman you ruined,
and fled the country with her. The sole comfort left me is my boy, and I
will keep him, God helping me. I will not put his soul in jeopardy by
committing him to a father unworthy the name.'

Could this be gentle Mary Gifford? This woman with flashing eyes and set,
determined face, from which all tenderness seemed to have vanished as she
stood before the man from whom she had suffered a terrible wrong, and who
was the father of her child.

The mother, roused in defence of her boy--from what she considered danger
both to his body and soul--was, indeed, a different woman from the quiet,
dignified matron, who had stood in that very spot with Humphrey Ratcliffe a
day or two before, and had turned away with sorrowful resolution from the
love he offered her, and which she could not accept.

What if it had been possible for her to take refuge with him! What if she
had been, as for years everyone believed her to be, a widow! Now disgraced,
and with the death of the man, whom he had killed, on his head, and as one
of the hunted and persecuted Papists, her husband lived! If only he had
died.

The next moment the very thought was dismissed, with a prayer for grace to
resist temptation, and pardon even for the thought, and Mary Gifford was
her true self again.

With the fading light of the April evening on her face--pale as death, but
no longer resentful--her heart no longer filled with passionate anger and
shrinking from the husband who had so cruelly deserted her, she stood
before him, quiet and self-possessed, awakening in his worldly and
deceitful heart admiration, and even awe.

There was silence between them for a short space.

Suddenly, from the open casement above their heads, came the sound of a
child's voice--a low murmur at first, then growing louder--as the dream
passed into reality.

'Mother, mother! Ambrose wants mother!'

Then, without another word, Mary Gifford bowed her head, and, passing into
the kitchen, closed and barred the door; and, hastening to her room, threw
herself on her knees by the child's little bed, crying,--

'Ambrose, sweetheart! Mother is here!'

'I'm glad on't,' said the child, in a sleepy, dreamy voice, as he turned
towards her, and wound his arms round her neck.

'I'm glad on't! I thought I had lost her.'

The sound of the child's voice smote on the ears of the unhappy father, and
sent a sharp thrill of pain through his heart.

Perhaps there never was a moment in his life when he felt so utterly
ashamed and miserable.

He felt the great gulf which lay between him and the pure woman whom he had
so cruelly deserted--a gulf, too, separating him from the child in his
innocent childhood--the possession of whom he so greatly coveted. For a
moment or two softer feelings got the mastery, and Ambrose Gifford stood
there, under the starlit sky, almost resolved to relinquish his purpose,
and leave the boy to his mother. But that better feeling soon passed, and
the specious reasoning, that he was doing the best for the child to have
him brought up a good Catholic, and educated as his mother could never
educate him, and that the end justified the means, and that he was bound to
carry out his purpose, made him say to himself, as he turned away,--

'I will do it yet, in spite of her, for the boy's salvation. Yes; by the
saints I will do it!'

       *       *       *       *       *

The next few days passed without any summons for Lucy to join the household
at Penshurst.

She became restless and uneasy, fearing that, after all, she might miss
what she had set her heart upon.

Troubles, too, arose about her dress. She had been conscious on Sunday that
the ladies in attendance were far smarter than she was; and she had
overheard the maiden, who was addressed as 'Betty,' say,--

'That country child is vain of her gown, but it might have been put
together in the reign of our Queen's grandmother. And who ever saw a ruff
that shape; it is just half as thick as it ought to be.'

Poor little Lucy had other causes, as she thought, for discontent. The long
delay in the fulfilment of her wishes was almost too much for her patience;
but it was exasperating, one morning, to be summoned from the dairy by
little Ambrose to see a grand lady on a white horse, who asked if Mistress
Lucy Ratcliffe had gone to London.

Lucy ran out in eager haste, hoping almost against hope that it was some
lady from Penshurst, sent by the Countess to make the final arrangements.

To her dismay she found Dorothy Ratcliffe being lifted from the pillion by
a serving man, attired in a smart riding-robe of crimson with gold buttons
and a hood of the same material to protect her head from the sun and the
keen east wind which had set in during the last few days.

'Good-day to you,' Dorothy said. 'I did not hope to find you here.
Methought you had set off for London days ago! Whence the delay?'

'I am waiting the Countess of Pembroke's pleasure,' Lucy said, with
heightened colour. 'The tourney has been put off.'

'As we all know,' Dorothy remarked, 'but it is well to be lodged in good
time, for all the quarters near Whitehall will be full to overflowing.
Prithee, let me come in out of the wind, it is enow to blow one's head off
one's shoulders.'

Lucy was unpleasantly conscious that she was in her ordinary dress, that
her blue homespun was old and faded, that her sleeves were tucked up, and
that there was neither ruff at her throat nor ruffles at her sleeves, that
her somewhat disordered locks were covered with a thick linen cap, while
Mistress Ratcliffe was smartly equipped for riding after the fashion of the
ladies of the time.

'Well-a-day,' Dorothy said. 'I am vexed you are disappointed. We are off at
sunrise on the morrow, staying a night at my father's house in Tunbridge,
and then on to London on the next day but one. Aunt Ratcliffe and my father
have business to go through about me and my jointure, for, after all, for
peace's sake, I shall have to wed with George, unless,' with a toss of her
head, 'I choose another suitor in London.'

Dorothy's small eyes were fastened on Lucy as she spoke. If she hoped the
information she had given would be unwelcome, she must have been
disappointed. Lucy was herself again, and forgot her shabby gown and
work-a-day attire, in the secret amusement she felt in Dorothy's way of
telling her proposed marriage with George Ratcliffe.

'It will save all further plague of suitors,' Dorothy continued, 'and there
is nought against George. If he is somewhat of a boor in manners, I can
cure him, and, come what may, I dare to say he will be a better husband in
the long run than Humphrey. What do you say, Mistress Lucy?'

'I dare to say both are good men and trusty,' was the answer, 'and both are
well thought of by everyone.'

'Ay, so I believe; but now tell me how comes it you are left out in the
cold like this? I vow I did my best to wheedle the old aunt yonder to let
you come in our train, but she is as hard as a rock when she chooses. When
I get to Hillbrow there won't be two mistresses, I warrant. One of us will
have to give in, and it won't be your humble servant! As I say I am sorry
you have lost your chance of this jaunt. It's a pity, and if I could put in
a good word for you I would. I am on my way now to Penshurst Place to pay
my dutiful respects to my Lady Mary Sidney. My good aunt was not ready when
I started, so I thought to tarry here to await her coming. I hear the
horse's feet, I think, in the lane. I must not make her as cross as two
sticks by keeping her fuming at my delay, so good-day, Mistress Lucy. I am
mightily sorry for you, but I will put in a word for you if I can.'

'I pray you not to mention my name, Mistress Dorothy,' Lucy said. 'You are
quite wrong, I am only waiting for my summons from the Countess, and I am
prepared to start.'

'Not if the summons came now,' Dorothy said, with a disagreeable smile.
'You couldn't ride to Court in homespun, methinks. Her Highness the Queen,
so I hear, is vastly choice about dress, and she has proclaimed that if the
ruffs either of squires or ladies are above a certain height they shall be
clipped down by shearers hired for the purpose--willy nilly. As you have no
ruffs, it seems, this order will not touch your comfort. Good-day.'

Lucy looked after her departing visitor, seated on a pillion with the
serving-man, with a scornful smile.

It was irritating, no doubt, to be pitied by Dorothy Ratcliffe, and to have
to stand by her in such humble attire, but did she not know that George,
poor George, loved her, and her alone; did she not know that he would never
suffer himself to be entrapped into a marriage with his cousin, even though
she had bags of gold, and finally--and that was perhaps the sweetest
thought of all--did she not know whether in faded homespun, guiltless of
lace or ruffle, or in her best array, no one could look twice at Dorothy
Ratcliffe while she was by.

So the poor little vain heart was comforted, as Lucy turned to Mary, who
had been in the bakehouse kneading flour for the coarse, brown bread
consumed by the household at Ford Manor far too quickly to please Mistress
Forrester, with a merry laugh,--

'To think on't, Mary. Doll Ratcliffe has been visiting me to tell me she is
to marry George, and be the fair mistress of Hillbrow. I could split my
sides with laughing to think of it! And she came to pity me--pity me,
forsooth! because I have to wait long for the summons to join my Lady
Pembroke, and she starts on the morrow. I hate pity, Mary;--pity, indeed,
from a frump like that! I can snap my fingers at her, and tell her she will
want my pity--not I hers.'

'Go and finish your work, Lucy,' Mary said. 'Strive after a gentler and
more patient spirit. It fills me with foreboding when you give your tongue
such licence.'

'Mary!' Lucy said, with a sudden vehemence. 'Mary! I heard you sobbing last
night--I know I did. I heard you praying for help. Oh! Mary, I love you--I
love you, and I would fain know why you are more unhappy than you were a
while agone. Has it aught to do with that black, dreadful man I saw on the
hill?'

'Do not speak of him--not a soul must know of him. Promise, Lucy!' Mary
said.

'But George Ratcliffe knows how he scared me that day, though he did not
see him. He said he would track him out and belabour him as he deserved.'

And now, before Mary could make any rejoinder, Ambrose was calling from the
head of the stairs,--

'Mother, I am tired of staying here, let me come down.'

'Yes, come, Ambrose,' Mary said, 'mother's work is over, and she can have
you now near her.'

The child was the next minute in his mother's arms.

Mary covered him with kisses.

'And you have stayed in my chamber for these two hours?' she said. 'My
good, brave boy!'

'Yes; I stayed,' the child said, 'because I promised, you know. I didn't
like it--and when a lady rode up on a big grey horse, I did begin to run
down, and then I stopped and went back to the lattice, and only looked at
her. It was not a horse like Mr Sidney's, and I should not care to ride on
a pillion--I like to sit square, like Mr Sidney does. When will he come
again? If he comes, will you tell him I am learning to be a dutiful boy? He
told me to be a dutiful boy, because I had no father; and I _will_ be
dutiful and take care of you, sweet mother!'

'Ah, Ambrose! Ambrose!' Mary said, 'you are my joy and pride, when you are
good and obedient, and we will take care of each other, sweetheart, and
never part--'

'Not till I am a big man,' Ambrose said, doubtfully, 'not till I am a big
man, then--'

'We will not speak of that day yet--it is so far off. Now we must set the
board for dinner, and you shall help me to do it, for it is near eleven
o'clock.'




CHAPTER VI

THREE FRIENDS

    'To lose good days that might be better spent,
     To waste long nights in pensive discontent,
     To speed to-day--to be put back to-morrow--
     To feed on hope--and pine with fear and sorrow.'

    SPENSER.


The gentlewomen in attendance on the Queen had a sorry time of it during
Philip Sidney's absence from the Court.

She was irritable and dissatisfied with herself and everyone besides.
Fearing lest the French Ambassador should not be received with due pomp in
London, and sending for Lord Burleigh and the Earl of Leicester again and
again to amend the marriage contract which was to be discussed with the
Duke of Anjou's delegates.

Secret misgivings were doubtless the reason of the Queen's uneasy mood, and
she vented her ill-humour upon her tire-women, boxing their ears if they
failed to please her in the erection of her head-gear, or did not arrange
the stiff folds of her gold-embroidered brocade over the hoop, to her
entire satisfaction.

Messengers were despatched several times during the process of the Queen's
toilette on this May morning to inquire if Mr Philip Sidney had returned
from Penshurst.

'Not returned yet!' she exclaimed, 'nor Fulke Greville with him. What keeps
them against my will? I will make 'em both rue their conduct.'

'Methinks, Madam,' one of the ladies ventured to say, 'Mr Philip Sidney is
wholly given up to the effort he is making that the coming tourney may be
as brilliant as the occasion demands, and that keeps him away from Court.'

'A likely matter! You are a little fool, and had best hold your tongue if
you can say nought more to the purpose.'

'I know Mr Sidney spares no pains to the end he has in view, Madam, and he
desires to get finer horses for his retinue.'

'You think you are in his confidence, then,' the Queen said, angrily. 'You
are a greater fool than I thought you. I warrant you think Philip Sidney is
in love with you--you are in love with him, as the whole pack of you are, I
doubt not, and so much the worse for you.'

Then the Queen having, by this sally, brought the hot tears to the lady's
eyes, recovered her composure and her temper, and proceeded to take her
morning draught of spiced wine, with sweet biscuits, and then resorted to
the Council chamber, where all matters of the State were brought before her
by her ministers. Here Elizabeth was the really wise and able monarch, who
earnestly desired the good of her people; here her counsellors were often
fairly amazed at her far-seeing intelligence and her wide culture. No
contrast could be greater than between the middle-aged Maiden Queen pluming
her feathers to win the hearts of her courtiers, and listening with
satisfaction to the broadest flattery with which they could approach her,
and the sovereign of a nation in times which must ever stand out in the
history of England as the most remarkable the country has ever known,
gravely deliberating with such men as Lord Burleigh and Sir Francis
Walsingham on the affairs of State at home and abroad.

Elizabeth had scarcely seated herself in her chair, and was about to summon
Sir Francis Walsingham, when one of the pages-in-waiting came in, and,
bending his knee, said,--

'Mr Philip Sidney craves an audience with your Highness.'

Philip was only waiting in the ante-chamber to be announced, and, being
secure of his welcome, had followed the page into the Queen's presence,
and, before Elizabeth had time to speak, he was on his knees before her,
kissing the hand she held out to him.

'Nay, Philip, I scarce know whether I will receive you--a truant should be
whipped as a punishment--but, mayhap, this will do as well for the nonce,'
and the Queen stroked Philip Sidney on both cheeks, saying, 'The gem of my
Court, how has it fared with him?'

'As well as with any man while absent from you, fair Queen. Gems,' he added
playfully, 'do not shine in the dark, they need the sun to call forth their
brightness, and you are my sun; apart from you, how can I shine?'

'A pretty conceit,' Elizabeth said. 'But tell me, Philip, are things put in
train for the due observance of such an event as the coming of the
delegates from France? It is a momentous occasion to all concerned.'

'It is, indeed, Madam,' Philip Sidney said, 'and I pray it may result in
happiness for you and this kingdom.'

'Nay, now, Philip, are you going back to what you dared to say of
disapproval of this marriage three years ago? I would fain hope not, for
your own sake.'

'Madam, I then, in all humility, delivered to you my sentiments. You were
not pleased to hear them, and I was so miserable as to offend you.'

'Yes, and,' using her favourite oath 'you will again offend me if you
revive the old protest, so have a care. We exercise our royal prerogative
in the matter of marriage, and I purpose to wed with the Duke of Anjou,
come what may.'

'I know it, Madam, and, as your faithful subject, I am doing my utmost to
make the coming jousts worthy of your approval and worthy of the occasion.
The Fortress of Beauty is erected, and the mound raised, and I would fain
hope that you will be pleased to honour the victors with a smile.'

'And with something more valuable; but tell me, Philip, how does it fare
with my Lady Rich? Rumour is busy, and there are tale-bearers, who have
neither clean hearts nor clean tongues. Sure you can pick and choose
amongst many ladies dying for your favour; sure your Queen may lay claim to
your devotion. Why waste your sighs on the wife of Lord Rich?'

Immediately Philip Sidney's manner changed. Not even from the Queen could
he bear to have this sore wound touched. He rose from his half-kneeling,
half-sitting position at the Queen's feet, and said in a grave voice,--

'I await your commands, Madam, which I shall hold sacred to my latest
breath, but pardon me if I beseech your Highness to refrain from the
mention of one whom I have lost by my own blind folly, and so made
shipwreck.'

'Tut, tut, Philip; this is vain talking for my fine scholar and statesman.
Shipwreck, forsooth! Nay, your craft shall sail with flying colours yet.
But I hear the voices of Burleigh and Leicester in the ante-chamber! Your
good uncle is like to die of jealousy; if he finds I am closeted with you
he will come to the Council in an ill temper, and rouse the lion in me. So,
farewell till the evening, when I command your presence at the banquet.'

'Madam, there is yet one word I would say. It is upon my good father's
affairs.'

'What now? Henry Sidney is always complaining--no money, no favour! As to
the money, he has spent a goodly sum in Ireland, and yet cries out for
more, and would fain go thither again, and take you with him, to squander
more coin.'

'I have no desire, Madam, either for him to go to Ireland or for myself to
accompany him. But I pray you to consider how small a pittance he receives
as Lord President of Wales. It is ever a struggle for my mother to maintain
the dignity of your representative there. She is wearing out her life in a
vain effort, and you, Madam, surely know that her nature is noble, and that
she seeks only to promote the welfare of others.'

'Ay! Mary Sidney is well enough. We will think over the matter. Command her
to come to Court for this Whitsuntide, there is a chamber at her service.
Now, I must to business. Stay if it suits you; you have more wits than all
the rest of us put together. Yes, that is Leicester's step and voice.'

Philip knew better than to remain without express invitation to do so from
his uncle, the Earl of Leicester. It was, perhaps, only natural that the
elder man should be jealous of the younger, who had, when scarcely
four-and-twenty, already gained a reputation for statesmanship at home and
abroad. Brilliant as Leicester was, he was secretly conscious that there
were heights which he had failed to reach, and that his nephew, Philip
Sidney, had won a place in the favour of his sovereign, which even the
honest protest he had made against this marriage with the Duke of Anjou had
failed to destroy; a high place also in the esteem of the world by the
purity of his life and the nobleness of a nature which commended itself
alike to gentle and simple; while he had the reputation of a true knight
and brave soldier, pure, and without reproach, as well as a scholar versed
in the literature of other countries, and foremost himself amongst the
scholars and poets of the day.

Philip Sidney left the presence-chamber by another door as his uncle and
Lord Burleigh entered it, and went to his own apartments, where he expected
to meet some friends, and discuss with them topics more interesting and
profitable than the intrigues of the Court and the Queen's matrimonial
projects.

Edmund Spenser's dedication to the _Shepherd's Calendar_ is well known, and
there can be no doubt that he owed much to Sidney's discriminating
patronage.

That dedication was no empty compliment to win favour, and the friendship
between Edmund Spenser and Philip Sidney gathered strength with time. They
had often walked together under the trees at Penshurst, and a sort of club
had been established, of which the members were Gabriel Harvey, Edward
Dyer, Fulke Greville and others, intended for the formation of a new school
of poetry. Philip Sidney was the president, and Spenser, the youngest and
most enthusiastic member, while Gabriel Harvey, who was the oldest, was
most strict in enforcing the rules laid down, and ready with counsel and
encouragement.

The result of all the deliberations of this club were very curious, and the
attempt made to force the English tongue into hexameters and iambics
signally failed.

Philip Sidney and Spenser were the first to discover that the hexameter
could never take its place in English verse, and they had to endure some
opposition and even raillery from Gabriel Harvey, who was especially
annoyed at Edmund Spenser's desertion; and had bid him farewell till God or
some good angel put him in a better mind.

This literary club had broken up three years before this time, but Edmund
Spenser and Sir Fulke Greville still corresponded or met at intervals with
Sidney to compare their literary efforts and criticise them freely,
Spenser's always being pronounced, as doubtless they were, far above the
others in beauty of style and poetical conception.

By Philip Sidney's influence Spenser had been sent to Ireland as secretary
to Lord Grey of Wilton, whose recall was now considered certain. Sir Henry
Sidney would have been willing to return as Deputy with his son under him;
but, having been badly supported in the past, he stipulated that the Queen
should reward his long service by a peerage and a grant of money or lands
as a public mark of her confidence.

Philip found Sir Fulke Greville in his room, and with him Edward Dyer, who
had come to discuss a letter from Edmund Spenser, which he wished his
friends to hear.

'He fears he shall lose his place if Lord Grey be recalled, and beseeches
me,' Philip said, 'to do my best that he should remain secretary to
whomsoever the Queen may appoint.'

'And that will be an easy matter, methinks,' Dyer said, 'if the rumour is
true that your good father is again to be appointed Deputy of Ireland, with
you for his helper.'

'Contradict that rumour, good Ned,' Philip said. 'There is but the barest
chance of the Queen's reinstating my father, and if, indeed, it happened
so, I should not accept the post under him. I will write to our friend
Spenser and bid him take courage. His friends will not desert him. But I
have here a stanza or two of the _Fairie Queene_, for which Edmund begs me
to seek your approval or condemnation.'

'It will be the first,' Fulke Greville said, 'as he very well knows, and it
will not surprise me to find our good friend Harvey at last giving him his
meed of praise, albeit he was so rash as to say that hexameters in English
are either like a lame gosling that draweth one leg after, or like a lame
dog that holdeth one leg up.'

Fulke Greville laughed, saying,--

'A very apt simile; at least, for any attempt I was bold enow to make; but
read on, Philip. I see a whole page of Edmund's somewhat cramped writing.'

'It is but a fragment,' Philip said, 'but Edmund makes a note below that he
had in his mind a fair morning, when we walked together at Penshurst, and
that the sounds and sights he here describes in verse are wafted to him
from that time.'

'Why do you sigh as you say that, Philip? Come, man, let us have no
melancholy remembrances, when all ought to be bright and gay.'

'The past time has ever somewhat of sadness as we live in it again. Have
you never heard, Fulke, of the hope deferred that maketh a sick heart, nor
of the hunger of the soul for the tree of life, which is to be ever
denied?'

'I am in no mood for such melancholy,' was the answer. 'Let us hear what
Spenser saith of that time of which you speak. I'll warrant we shall find
it hard to pick out faults in what he writes therein.

Then Philip read,--

    'Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound
     Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,
     Such as att once might not on living ground,
     Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
     Right hard it was for wight which did it heare,
     To read what manner musicke that mote bee,
     For all that pleasing is to living eare
     Was there consorted in one harmonee--
     Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.

    'The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheerefull shade,
     Their notes unto the voyce attempred sweet,
     Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made
     To th' instruments divine respondence meet;
     The silver-sounding instruments did meet
     With the base murmure of the waters' fall,
     The waters' fall with difference discreet,
     Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call,
     The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.'

We may well think that these stanzas, which form a part of the 12th canto
of the Second Book of the _Faerie Queene_ have seldom been read to a more
appreciative audience, nor by a more musical voice. After a moment's
silence, Edward Dyer said,--

'I find nought to complain of in all these lines. They flow like the stream
rippling adown from the mountain side--a stream as pure as the fountain
whence it springs.'

'Ay,' Fulke Greville said; 'that is true. Methinks the hypercritic might
say there should not be two words of the same spelling and sound and
meaning, to make the rhyme, as in the lines ending with meet.'

'A truce to such comment, Fulke,' Philip said. 'Rhyme is not of necessity
poetry, nor poetry rhyme. There be many true poets who never strung a
rhyme, and rhymers who know nought of poetry.'

'But, hearken; Edmund has wrote more verses on the further side of this
sheet. I will e'en read them, if it pleases you to hear.'

Fulke Greville made a gesture of assent, and Philip Sidney read, with a
depth of pathos in his voice which thrilled the listeners,--

    'Ah! see, whoso faire thing dost faine to see,
     In springing flowre the image of thy day!
     Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee
     Doth first peepe foorth with bashful modestee,
     That fairer seemes, the lesse ye see her may!
     Lo! see soone after how more bold and free
     Her bared bosome she doth broad display.
     Lo! see soone after how she fades and falls away!

    'So passeth, in the passing of a day,
     Of mortall life, the leafe, the bud, the flowre,
     No more doth flourish after first decay.
     That erst was sought to deck both bed and bowre
     Of many a ladie, and many a paramoure!
     Gather, therefore, the rose, whilst yet is prime,
     For soon comes age that will her pride deflowre;
     Gather the rose of love, whilst yet is time,
     Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime.'

These last verses were received in silence. There was no remark made on
them, and no criticism.

Probably both Sidney's friends felt that they referred to what was too
sacred to be touched by a careless hand; and, indeed, there was no one,
even amongst Philip's dearest friends, except his sister Mary, the Countess
of Pembroke, who ever approached the subject of his love for Stella--that
rose which Philip had not gathered when within his reach, and which was now
drooping under an influence more merciless than that of age--the baneful
influence of a most unhappy marriage.

The Queen had that very morning spoken out with a pitiless bluntness, which
had made Philip unusually thoughtful. The very words the Queen had used
haunted him--'tale-bearers, who had neither clean hearts nor clean
tongue.'

Edward Dyer, according to the custom of the friends when they met, read
some verses he had lately composed, and Fulke Greville followed.

Then Philip Sidney was called upon to contribute a sonnet or stanza.

If he never reached the highest standard of poetry, and, even in his best
stanzas of _Stella and Astrophel_, rivalled the sweet flow of Edmund
Spenser's verse, he had the gift of making his verses vividly express what
was uppermost in his mind at the moment, as many of the _Stella and
Astrophel_ poems abundantly testify.

In early youth Philip Sidney had been influenced by a distinguished convert
to the Reformed Faith, Hubert Languet, whom he met at Frankfort. Between
this man of fifty-four and the boy of eighteen, who had gone abroad for
thoughtful travel and diligent study, a strong--even a romantic--friendship
had sprung up, and the letters which have been preserved show how
unwavering Hubert Languet was in his devotion to the young Englishman,
whose fine and noble qualities he had been quick to discover.

About this time Philip was anxious as to the health of his old friend. His
letters had been less frequent, and the last he had received during the
present year, had seemed to tell of failing powers of body, though the mind
was as vigorous as ever.

Thus, the two verses which Philip now read from his _Arcadia_ had reference
to his old and dearly-loved counsellor and friend, and were inspired by
the lifelong gratitude he felt for him. They are clothed, as was the two
frequent custom of the time, in pastoral images; but Fulke Greville and
Edward Dyer listened spellbound as the words were uttered, in musical
tones, with a strength of feeling underlying them, which gave every line a
deep significance.

    'The song I sang, old Languet had me taught,
     Languet, the shepherd, best swift Ister knew;
     For, clerkly read, and hating what is naught
     For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true,
     With his sweet skill my skilless youth he drew,
     To have a feeling taste of Him that sits
     Beyond the heaven, far more beyond our wits.

    'He said the music best those powers pleased,
     Was jump accord between our wit and will,
     Where highest notes to godliness are raised,
     And lowest sink, not down to jot of ill,
     With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill,
     How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive,
     Spoiling their flock, or while 'twixt them they strive.'

'There is naught to complain of in those verses, Philip,' Fulke Greville
said. 'He must be a sharp censor, indeed, who could find fault with them.
We must do our best to bring good old Gabriel Harvey back to join our
Areopagus, as Edmund Spenser is bold enough to call it.'

'Have you heard aught of the friend in whose praise the verses were
indited?' Edward Dyer asked.

'Nay, as I said, I have had but one letter from Languet for many months.
As soon as this tourney is over I must get leave to make a journey to
Holland to assure myself of his condition.'

'The Queen will rebel against your absence, Philip. You are in higher
favour than ever, methinks; nor do I grudge you the honour, as, I fear,
some I could name grudge it.'

Philip rose quickly, as if unwilling to enter into the subject, and,
gathering together their papers, the three friends broke up their meeting
and separated till the evening.

Anyone who had seen Philip Sidney as he threw himself on a settle when
Fulke Greville and Edward Dyer had left him, and had watched the profound
sadness of his face as he gave himself up to meditation on the sorrow which
oppressed him, would have found it difficult to imagine how the graceful
courtier, who that evening after the banquet at Whitehall led the Queen, as
a mark of especial favour, through the mazes of the dance, could ever have
so completely thrown off the melancholy mood for one of gaiety and apparent
joyousness. How many looked at him with envy when the Queen gave him her
hand in the dance then much in fashion called the 'Brawl!' This dance had
been lately introduced, and the Queen delighted in it, as it gave her the
opportunity of distinguishing the reigning favourite with an especial mark
of her favour.

This evening the ring was formed of ladies and gentlemen chosen by
Elizabeth, who gorgeously attired, her hoop and stiff brocade making a
wide circle in the centre of the ring, called upon Philip Sidney to stand
there with her.

The Queen then, giving her hand to Philip, pirouetted with him to the sound
of the music, and, stopping before the gentleman she singled out for her
favour, kissed him on the left cheek, while Philip, bending on his knee,
performed the same ceremony with the lady who had been the partner of the
gentleman before whom the Queen had stopped. By the rules of the dance, the
couple who stood in the centre of the ring now changed places with those
who had been saluted, but this did not suit the Queen's mind this evening.

She always delighted to display her dancing powers before her admiring
courtiers, exciting, as she believed, the jealousy of the ladies, who could
not have the same opportunity of showing their graceful movements in the
'Brawl.'

The Queen selected Lord Leicester and Christopher Hatton and Fulke Greville
and several other gentlemen, and curtseyed and tripped like a girl of
sixteen instead of a mature lady of forty-nine.

Elizabeth's caprice made her pass over again and again several courtiers
who were burning with ill-concealed anger as they saw Leicester and his
nephew chosen again and again, while they were passed over.

At last the Queen was tired, and ordered the music to cease. She was led by
Leicester to the raised dais at the end of the withdrawing-room where the
dancing took place, and then, at her command, Philip Sidney sang to the
mandoline some laudatory verses which he had composed in her honour.

The Queen contrived to keep him near her for most of the evening, but he
escaped now and then to circulate amongst the ladies of the Court and to
answer questions about the coming tournament.

In one of the alcoves formed by the deep bay of one of the windows Philip
found his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, who was purposely waiting there
to see him alone, if possible.

'I have been waiting for you, Philip,' she said, 'to ask who will arrange
the position my gentlewomen will occupy at the tourney. I have several
eager to see the show, more eager, methinks, than their mistress, amongst
them the little country maiden, Lucy Forrester, whom you know of.'

'I will give what orders I can to those who control such matters. But, my
sweet sister, you look graver than your wont.'

'Do I, Philip? Perhaps there is a reason; I would I could feel happy in the
assurance that you have freed yourself from the bonds which I know in your
better moments you feel irksome. You will have no real peace of mind till
you have freed yourself, and that I know well.'

'I am in no mood for reproaches to-night, Mary,' Philip said, with more
heat than he often showed when speaking to his dearly-loved sister. 'Let
me have respite till this tournament is over at least.' And as he spoke,
his eyes were following Lady Rich as she moved through the mazes of a
Saraband--a stately Spanish dance introduced to the English Court when
Philip was the consort of poor Queen Mary.

'I might now be in the coveted position of Charles Blount in yonder dance,'
Philip said. 'I refrained from claiming my right to take it, and came
hither to you instead.'

'Your right! Nay, Philip, you have no right. Dear brother, does it never
seem to you that you do her whom you love harm by persisting in that very
love which is--yes, Philip, I must say it--unlawful? See, now, I am struck
with the change in her since I beheld her last. The modesty which charmed
me in Penelope Devereux seems vanished. Even now I hear her laugh, hollow
and unreal, as she coquettes and lays herself out for the admiring notice
of the gentlemen who are watching her movements. Yes, Philip, nothing but
harm can come of persisting in this unhappy passion.'

'Harm to her! Nay, I would die sooner than that harm should befall her
through me. I pray you, Mary, let us speak of other matters.' But though he
did begin to discuss the affairs of his father, and to beg Lady Pembroke to
advise his mother to be wary in what she urged when the Queen gave her an
interview, it was evident to his sister that his thoughts were in the
direction of his eyes, and that she could not hope to get from him the wise
advice as to her father's embarrassments which she had expected.

But the gently exercised influence of his pure and high-minded sister had
its effect, and long after the sounds of revelry had died away, and the
quiet of night had fallen upon the palace, there was one who could not
sleep.

Philip Sidney was restlessly pacing to and fro in the confined space of the
chamber allotted to him at Whitehall, and this sonnet, one of the most
beautiful which he ever wrote, will express better than any other words
what effect his sister's counsel had upon him.

    'Leave me, oh! Love! which reachest but to dust,
       And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things,
     Grow rich in that, which never taketh rust.
       Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.

     Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might,
       To that sweet yoke, where lasting freedoms be,
     Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
       That doth both shine and give us sight to see.

     Oh! take fast hold! let that light be thy guide
       In this small course which birth draws out to Death,
     And think how evil becometh him to slide
       Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
       Then farewell world, thy uttermost I see;
       Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.'

The clouds were soon to break and the light shine upon the way in that
'small course' which yet lay before him.

We who can look onward to the few years yet left to Philip Sidney, and can
even now lament that they were so few, know how his aspirations were
abundantly fulfilled, and that Love Eternal did indeed maintain its life in
his noble and true heart.




CHAPTER VII

WHITSUNTIDE, 1581

    'The greater stroke astonisheth the more;
     Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;
     I stood amazed when others' tears begun,
     And now begin to weep, when they have done.'

    HENRY CONSTABLE, 1586.


After Lucy's departure from Penshurst, Mary Gifford kept her boy
continually in sight, and, however restive Ambrose might be under the
control which his grandmother exercised over him, he was generally obedient
to his mother.

His high spirit was curbed by a look from her, and, having promised that he
would not go beyond the gate leading from the farmyard on one side of Ford
Manor, or into the lane which led to the highroad on the other, Ambrose
held that promise sacred.

He trotted along by his mother's side as she performed the duties in the
dairy and poultry-yard, which Lucy's absence in the household had made it
necessary for her to undertake. Although it was a relief that peace reigned
now that the wranglings between their stepmother and Lucy had ceased, Mary
found the additional work a great strain upon her, however glad she was to
have her hands well occupied, that she might have less time to brood over
the fears which her husband's visit and threats had aroused.

Two weeks had now gone by, and these fears were comparatively laid to rest.
Mary thought that her husband would not risk being seen in the
neighbourhood, as news came through the Puritan friends of Mrs Forrester
that several Papists had been seized at Tunbridge, and had been thrown into
prison, on the suspicion that they were concerned in one of the Popish
plots of which the Protestants were continually in dread, and in one of
which Edmund Campion was implicated.

Indeed, there was an almost universal feeling throughout the country that
the Papists cherished evil designs against the Queen's life, and that they
were only biding their time to league with those who wished to place the
captive Queen of Scotland on the throne, and so restore England to her
allegiance to the Pope.

News of the imprisonment of this celebrated Edmund Campion had been
circulated about this time through the country, and stories of the manner
in which he had been mercilessly tortured to extract from him the
confession of a plot against Elizabeth's life.

On the Sunday after Ascension Day there were to be great shows and games in
the village of Penshurst, and Ambrose, hearing of them from his friend Ned
the cowherd, on Saturday evening, begged his mother to let him see the
sports.

'There's a wrestling match,' he urged, 'on the green, and a tilting between
horsemen in the outer park. Mother, I'd like to see it; do take me down to
see it. Oh! mother, do; I'll hold your hand all the time; I won't run away
from you, no, not an inch. I am six years old. I am big enough now to take
care of _you_, if there's a crowd or the horses plunge and kick. Ned says
it will be a brave show.'

'I will go down to church with you, Ambrose,' his mother said, 'and if I
can secure a safe place I will wait for a part of the sports, but you must
not fret if I do not stay to see the sports end, for I am tired, Ambrose,
and I would fain have rest on Sunday.'

The child looked wistfully into his mother's face.

'I'll be a very good boy, mother. I _have_ been a good boy,' he said, 'and
you will tell Mr Sidney that I didn't plague you, and tell Master Humphrey
too. He said I was a plague to you, and I hate him for saying it.'

'Hush, Ambrose, Master Ratcliffe will be a good friend to you, if--'

'If what? if _I_ am good?

'I meant, if ever you had no mother to care for you.'

'No mother!' the child repeated, only dimly catching her meaning. 'No
mother!' and there was a sudden change in his voice, which told of
something that was partly fear and partly incredulity. 'No mother! but you
said we should always have each other. I have you, and you have me. You
said I must not leave you, and,' with vehemence, 'you _sha'n't_ leave me.'

'Ambrose, God's will must be done, let us trust him.'

But the boy's serious mood passed, and he was now capering about and
singing as he went in a joyous monotone as he went to find Ned in the
farmyard.

'I am to see the sports on the morrow. I'm to see the sports on the green.'

The words reached other ears than Ned's. His grandmother came out of the
bakehouse, where she had been storing piles of loaves on a high shelf,
which had just been taken from the oven, and called out,--

'Sports on the Lord's Day, what does the child say? No one who eats my
bread shall see that day profaned. The wrath of the Almighty will fall on
their heads, whoever they be, mind that, Mary Gifford, mind that! Ay, I
know what you will say, that the Queen lends her countenance to them, and
your grand folk in the great house, but as sure as you live, Mary Gifford,
a curse will fall on your head if you let that child witness this
wickedness.'

Mary took refuge in silence, but her stepmother's words sounded in her ears
like a knell.

For herself she would willingly have dispensed with games and sports on
Sundays. Her sympathies were with those who, taking the just view of the
seventh day, believed that God had ordained it for the refreshment both of
body and soul--a day when, free from the labours of this toilsome world,
the body should rest, and the soul have quiet and leisure for meditation in
private, and for prayer and praise in the services appointed by the Church.

Sports and merry-making were quite as much out of harmony with Mary
Gifford's feelings as they were with her stepmother's, but, in the due
observance of Sunday, as in many other things, the extreme Puritan failed
to influence those around them by their harsh insistence on the letter
which killeth, and the utter absence of that spirit of love which giveth
life.

The villagers assembled in the churchyard on this Sunday morning were not
so numerous as sometimes, and the pew occupied by the Sidneys, when the
family was in residence at the Park, was empty.

Mary Gifford and her boy, as they knelt together by a bench near the
chancel steps, attracted the attention of the old Rector. He had seen them
before, and had many times exchanged a kindly greeting with Mary and
complimented Lucy on her 'lilies and roses,' and asked in a jocose way for
that good and amiable lady, their stepmother! But there was something in
Mary's attitude and rapt devotion as the light of the east window fell on
her, that struck the good old man as unusual.

When the service was over, he stepped up to her as she was crossing the
churchyard, and asked her to come into the Rectory garden to rest.

'For,' he added, 'you look a-weary, Mistress Gifford, and need refreshment
ere you climb the hill again.'

The Rectory garden was an Eden of delight to little Ambrose. His mother let
him wander away in the winding paths, intersecting the close-cut yew
hedges, with no fear of lurking danger, while, at the Rector's invitation,
she sat with him in a bower, over which a tangle of early roses and
honeysuckle hung, and filled the air with fragrance. A rosy-cheeked maiden
with bare arms, in a blue kirtle scarcely reaching below the knees, which
displayed a pair of sturdy legs cased in leather boots, brought a wooden
trencher of bread and cheese, with a large mug of spiced ale, and set them
down on the table, fixed to the floor of the summer bower, with a broad
smile.

As Ambrose ran past, chasing a pair of white butterflies, the Rector
said,--

'That is a fine boy, Mistress Gifford. I doubt not, doubly precious, as the
only son of his mother, who is a widow. I hear Master Philip Sidney looks
at him with favour; and, no doubt, he will see that he is well trained in
service which will stand him in good stead in life.'

'Ambrose is my only joy, sir,' Mary replied. 'All that is left to me of
earthly joy, I would say. I pray to be helped to bring him up in the
nurture and admonition of the Lord. But it is a great charge.'

'Take heart, Mistress Gifford; there are many childless folk who would envy
you your charge, but, methinks, you have the air of one who is burdened
with a hidden grief. Now, if I can, by hearing it, assuage it, and you
would fain bring it to me, I would do what in me lies as a minister of
Christ to give you counsel.'

'You are very good, kind sir, but there are griefs which no human hand can
touch.'

'I know it, I know it, for I have had experience therein. There was one I
loved beyond all words, and God gave her to me. I fell under heavy
displeasure for daring to break through the old custom of the
Church--before she was purged of many abuses, which forbids the marriage of
her priests--and my beloved was snatched from me by ruthless hands, even as
we stood before the altar of God.

'She died broken-hearted. It is forty years come Michaelmas, but the wound
is fresh; and I yet need to go to the Physician of Souls for healing.

'When the hard times of persecution came, and our blessed young King died,
and I had to flee for my life, I could thank God she was spared the misery
of being turned out in the wide world to beg her bread, with the children
God might have given us. Then, when the sun shone on us Protestants, and
our present Queen--God bless her!--ascended the throne, and I came hither,
the hungry longing for my lost one oppressed me. But the Lord gives, and
the Lord takes away: let us both say, "Blessed be His holy name." Now,
summon the boy to partake of this simple fare, and remember, Mistress
Gifford, if you want a friend, you can resort to me. I am now bound for
the parish of Leigh, where I say evensong at five o'clock.'

Mary called Ambrose, and said,--

'Bless my child, sir, and bless me also.'

Ambrose, at his mother's bidding, knelt by her side, and the Rector
pronounced the blessing, which has always a peculiar significance for those
who are troubled in spirit.

'To the Lord's gracious keeping I commit you. The Lord bless you and keep
you. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and give you
peace--now, and for evermore.'

A fervid 'Amen' came from the mother's lips, and was echoed by the child's,
as the old man's footsteps were heard on the path as he returned to the
Rectory.

It was a very happy afternoon for Ambrose. He enjoyed his dinner of wheaten
bread and creamy cheese; and his mother smiled to see him as he buried his
face in the large mug, and, after a good draught of the spiced drink,
smacked his lips, saying,--

'That is good drink, sweeter than the sour cider of which grandmother gives
me a sup. Aunt Lou says it is as sour as grandmother, who brews it. Aunt
Lucy is having sweet drinks now, and pasties, and all manner of nice
things. Why can't we go to London, mother, you and I?'

'Not yet, my boy, not yet.'

And then Ambrose subsided into a noonday sleep, curled up on the rude
bench which was fixed round the summer bower. His mother put her arm round
him, and he nestled close to her.

Peace! the peace the old Rector had called down upon her seemed to fill
Mary Gifford's heart; and that quiet hour of the Sunday noontide remained
in her memory in the coming days, as the last she was to know for many a
long year.

'The sports, mother!' Ambrose said, rousing himself at last, and struggling
to his feet. 'Let us go to see the sports.'

'Would you please me, Ambrose, by going home instead?'

Ambrose's lips quivered, and the colour rushed to his face.

'I want to see the sports,' he said; 'you promised you would take me.'

Then Mary Gifford rose, and, looking down on the child's troubled face,
where keen disappointment was written, she took his hand, saying,--

'Come, then; but if the crowd is great, and you are jostled and pushed, you
must come away, nor plague me to stay. I am not stout enough to battle with
a throng, and it may be that harm will come to you.'

They were at the Rectory gates now, and people were seen in all their
Sunday trim hurrying towards the field where the tilting match was to take
place.

Mary turned towards the square, on either side of which stood the old
timbered houses by the lych gate, and asked a man she knew, if the horsemen
who were to tilt in the field were to pass that way.

'For,' she added, 'I would fain wait here till they have ridden on. I might
get into danger with the child from the horses' feet.'

'Better have a care, mistress,' was the reply, and he added; 'scant
blessings come to those who turn Sunday into a day of revelry.'

'Ah!' said another voice, 'you be one of the saints, Jeremy; but why be
hard on country folk for a little merry-making, when the Queen and all the
grand nobles and ladies do the same, so I've heard, at Court.'

'I tell you,' was the reply, 'it's the old Popish custom--mass in the
morning, and feasting and revelling all the rest of the day. I tell you, it
is these licences which make the Nonconformists our bitter foes.'

'Foes!' the other said. 'Ay, there's a pack of 'em all round. Some seen,
some unseen--Papists and Puritans--but, thank the stars, I care not a groat
for either. I am contented, any way. Saint or sinner, Puritan or Papist, I
say, let 'em alone, if they'll let me alone.'

'Ay, there's the rub,' said the other, 'there's no letting alone. You and I
may live to see the fires kindled again, and burn ourselves, for that
matter.'

[Illustration: OLD HOUSES BY THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST.]

'I sha'n't burn. I know a way out of that. I watch the tide, and turn my
craft to sail along with it.'

And this easy-going time-server, of whom there are a good many descendants
in the present day, laughed a careless laugh, and then, as the sound of
horses' feet was heard, and that of the crowd drawing near, he
good-naturedly lifted Ambrose on his shoulder, and, planting his broad back
against the trunk of the great overshadowing elm, he told the boy to sit
steady, and he would carry him to the wall skirting the field, where he
could see all that was going on.

Mary Gifford followed, and, feeling Ambrose was safe, was glad he should be
gratified with so little trouble and risk. She rested herself on a large
stone by the wall, Ambrose standing above her, held there by the strong arm
of the man who had befriended them.

The tilt was not very exciting, for many of the best horses and men had
been called into requisition by the gentry of the neighbourhood, for the
far grander and more important show to come off at Whitehall in the
following week.

The spectators, however, seemed well satisfied, to judge by their huzzas
and cheers which hailed the victor in every passage of arms--cheers in
which little Ambrose, from his vantage ground, heartily joined.

At last it was over, and the throng came out of the field, the victor
bearing on the point of his tilting pole a crown made of gilded leaves,
which was a good deal battered, and had been competed for by these village
knights on several former occasions.

Like the challenge cups and shields of a later time, these trophies were
held as the property of the conqueror, till, perhaps, at a future trial, he
was vanquished, and then the crown passed into the keeping of another
victor.

Mary Gifford thanked the man, who had been so kind to her boy, with one of
her sweetest smiles, and Ambrose, at her bidding, said,--

'Thank you, kind sir, for letting me see the show. I'd like to see the game
of bowls now where all the folk are going.'

'No, no, Ambrose! you have had enough. We must go home, and you must get to
bed early, for your little legs must be tired.'

'Tired! I'd never be tired of seeing horses gallop and prance. Only, I long
to be astride of one, as I was of Mr Philip Sidney's.'

Mother and son pursued their way up the hill, Ambrose going over the events
of the day in childish fashion--wanting no reply, nor even attention from
his mother, while she was thinking over the different ways in matters of
religion of those who called themselves Christians.

These Sunday sports were denounced by some as sinful--and a sign of return
to the thraldom of Popery from which the kingdom had been delivered; others
saw in them no harm, if they did not actually countenance them by their
presence; while others, like herself, had many misgivings as to the
desirability of turning the day of rest into a day of merry-making, more,
perhaps, from personal taste and personal feeling than from principle.

When Mary Gifford reached Ford Manor, she found it deserted, and only one
old serving-man keeping guard. The mistress had gone with the rest of the
household to a prayer and praise meeting, held in the barn belonging to a
neighbouring yeoman, two miles away; and he only hoped, he said, that she
might return in a sweeter temper than she went. She had rated him and
scolded all round till she had scarce a breath left in her.

The old man was, like all the other servants, devoted to the gentle lady
who had gone out from her home a fair young girl, and had returned a sad
widow with her only child, overshadowed by a great trouble, the particulars
of which no one knew.

The rest of that Sabbath day was quiet and peaceful.

Mary read from Tyndale's version of the Testament her favourite chapter
from the Epistle of St John, and the love of which it told seemed to fill
her with confidence and descend dove-like upon her boy's turbulent young
heart.

He was in his softest, tenderest mood, and, as Mary pressed him close to
her side, she felt comforted, and said to herself,--

'While I have my boy, I can bear all things, with God's help.'

Mary Gifford was up long before sunrise the next morning, and, calling
Ambrose, she bid him come out with her and see if the shepherd had brought
in a lamb which had wandered away from the fold on the previous day. The
shepherd had been afraid to tell his mistress of the loss, and Mary had
promised to keep it from her till he had made yet another search; and then,
if indeed it was hopeless, she would try to soften Mistress Forrester's
anger against him.

'We may perchance meet him with the news that he has found the lamb, and
then there will be no need to let grannie know that it had been lost,' she
said.

It was a dull morning, and the clouds lay low in a leaden sky, while a mist
was hovering over the hills and blurring out the landscape.

The larks were soon lost to sight as they soared overhead, singing faintly
as they rose; the rooks gave prolonged and melancholy caws as they took
their early flight, and the cocks crowed querulously in the yard, while now
and then there was a pitiful bleat from the old ewe which had lost her
lamb.

In the intervals of sound, the stillness was more profound, and there was a
sense of oppression hanging over everything, which even Ambrose felt.

The moor stretched away in the haze, which gave the hillocks of gorse and
heather and the slight eminences of the open ground an unnatural size.

Every moment Mary hoped to see the shepherd's well-known figure looming
before her in the mist with the lamb in his arms, but no shepherd appeared.

'We must turn our steps back again, Ambrose. Perhaps the shepherd has gone
down into the valley, and it is chill and damp for you to be out longer;
when the sun gets up it will be warmer.'

She had scarcely spoken, when a figure appeared through the haze, like
every other object, looking unnaturally large.

'Quick, Ambrose,' she said, 'quick!' and, seizing the child's hand, she
began to run at her utmost speed along the sheep-path towards the stile
leading into the Manor grounds, near the farmyard.

The child looked behind to see what had frightened his mother.

'It's the big black man!' he said.

But Mary made no answer. She ran on, regardless of hillocks and big
stones--heedless of her steps, and thinking only of her pursuer.

Presently her foot caught in a tangle of heather, and she fell heavily, as
she was running at full speed, and struck her head against some sharp
stones lying in a heap at the edge of the track, which could hardly be
called a path.

'Mother! mother!' Ambrose called; and in another moment a hand was laid on
his shoulder--a strong hand, with a grasp which the child felt it was
hopeless to resist. 'Mother! mother!'

The cry of distress might well have softened the hardest heart; but men
like Ambrose Gifford are not troubled with what is commonly understood by
a heart. He spoke, however, in gentle tones.

'My poor child, your mother is much hurt. We must seek for the aid of a
surgeon. We must get help to carry her home. Come with me, and we will soon
get help.'

'No, no; I will not leave my mother,' Ambrose said, throwing himself on the
ground by her side. 'Why doesn't she speak or move? _Mother!_'

Alas! there was no answer; and a little red stream trickling down from a
wound on the forehead frightened Ambrose still more.

'It is blood!' he cried, with the natural shrinking which children always
show when their own fingers are cut. 'It is blood! Oh, mother!'

But Ambrose was now quietly lifted in a pair of strong arms, and the words
spoken in his ear,--

'We must seek help; we will get a surgeon. Your mother will die if we do
not get help, boy. Hush! If you cry out your mother may hear, and you will
distress her. Hush!'

Poor little Ambrose now subsided into a low wail of agony as he felt
himself borne along.

'Where are you going, sir? Set me down, set me down.'

'We go for help for your mother. Let that suffice.'

Ambrose now made a renewed struggle for freedom. It was the last; he felt
something put over his face, so that he could neither see where he was
going nor utter another cry; he only knew he was being carried off by this
strange man he knew not where, and that he had left his mother lying pale
and still, with that terrible red stream trickling from her forehead, on
the hillock of heather on the moor.

It is said, and perhaps with truth, that the bitterest hate is felt by the
sinner against the sufferer for his sin. This hatred was in Ambrose
Gifford's heart, and was the primary cause of his thus forcibly taking from
the wife whom he had so cruelly betrayed, the child who was so infinitely
precious to her.

Ambrose Gifford had, no doubt, by subtle casuistry persuaded himself that
he was doing good to the boy. He would be educated by the Jesuits, with
whom he had cast in his lot; he would be trained as a son of the Catholic
Church, and by this he hoped to gain favour, and strike off a few years of
purgatorial fire for his past sins!

He had confessed and done penance for the disgraceful acts of which he had
been guilty, and he had been received into the refuge the Roman Church was
ready to offer to him.

At this time she was making every effort to strengthen her outposts, and to
prepare for the struggle which at any moment she might be called upon to
make to regain her coveted ascendency in England.

The seminary founded at Douay by a certain Dr Allen, a fine scholar, who
was educated at Oxford, was much resorted to by persecuted Catholics who
sought a refuge there. Or by men like Ambrose Gifford, who, obliged to
leave the country under the shadow of a crime committed, were glad to throw
themselves into the arms ready to receive them, and, as they would have
expressed it, find pardon and peace by fasting and penance in the bosom of
the Catholic Church. Doubtless, the great majority of those who gathered at
Douay at this time were devout and persecuted members of the Church, from
the bondage of which Elizabeth had delivered her country, with the hearty
approbation of her loyal subjects.

But, black sheep like Ambrose Gifford went thither to be washed and
outwardly reformed; and he, being a man of considerable ability and
shrewdness, had after a time of probation been despatched to England to
beat up recruits and to bring back word how the Catholic cause was
prospering there.

He had, therefore, every reason to wish to take with him his own boy, whose
fine physique and noble air he had noted with pride as he had, unseen,
watched him for the last few weeks when haunting the neighbourhood like an
evil spirit.

He would do him credit, and reward all the pains taken to educate him and
bring him up as a good Catholic.

The motives which prompted him to this were mixed, and revenge against his
wife was perhaps the dominant feeling. She loved that boy better than
anything on earth; she would bring him up in the faith of the Reformed
Church, and teach him, probably, to hate his father.

He would, at any rate, get possession of this her idol, and punish her for
the words she had spoken to him by the porch of the farm, on that summer
evening now more than two weeks ago.

Ambrose Gifford had deceived Mary from the first, professing to be a
Protestant while it served his purpose to win favour in the household of
the Earl of Leicester, but in reality he was a Catholic, and only waited
the turn of the tide to declare himself. He led a bad, immoral life, and it
was scarcely more than two years after her marriage that Mary Gifford's
eyes were opened to the true character of the man who had won her in her
inexperienced girlhood by his handsome person--in which the boy resembled
him--his suave manner, and his passionate protestations of devotion to her.

Many women have had a like bitter lesson to learn, but perhaps few have
felt as Mary did, humbled in the very dust, when she awoke to the reality
of her position, that the love offered her had been unworthy the name, and
that she had been betrayed and deceived by a man who, as soon as the first
glamour of his passion was over, showed himself in his true colours, and
expected her to take his conduct as a matter of course, leaving her free,
as he basely insinuated, to console herself as she liked with other
admirers.

To the absolutely pure woman this was the final death-blow of all hope for
the future, and all peace in the present. Mary fled to her old home with
her boy, and soon after heard the report that her husband had been killed
in a fray, and that if he had lived he would have been arrested and
condemned for the secret attack made on his victim, and also as a disguised
Catholic supposed to be in league with those who were then plotting against
the life of the Queen.

About a year before this time, a gentleman of the Earl of Leicester's
household, when at Penshurst, had told Mary Gifford that Ambrose Gifford
was alive--that he had escaped to join the Jesuits at Douay, and was
employed by them as one of their most shrewd and able emissaries. From that
moment her peace of mind was gone, and the change that had come over her
had been apparent to everyone.

The sadness in her sweet face deepened, and a melancholy oppressed her,
except, indeed, when with her boy, who was a source of unfailing delight,
mingled with fear, lest she should lose him, by his father's machinations.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not till fully half-an-hour after Ambrose had been carried away,
that the shepherd, with his staff in his hand and the lost lamb thrown over
his shoulder, came to the place where Mary was lying.

She had recovered consciousness, but was quite unable to move. Besides the
cut on her forehead, she had sprained her ankle, and the attempt to rise
had given her such agony that she had fallen back again.

'Ay, then! lack-a-day, Mistress Gifford,' the shepherd said, 'how did this
come about. Dear heart alive! you look like a ghost.'

'I have fallen,' gasped Mary. 'But where is my boy--where is Ambrose? Get
me tidings of him, I pray you, good Jenkyns.'

'Lord! I must get help for you before I think of the boy. He has run home,
I dare to say, the young urchin; he is safe enough.'

'No, no,' Mary said. 'Oh! Jenkyns, for the love of Heaven, hasten to find
my boy, or I shall die of grief.'

The worthy shepherd needed no further entreaty. He hastened away, taking
the stile with a great stride, and, going up to the back door of the house,
he called Mistress Forrester to come as quick as she could, for there was
trouble on the moor.

Mistress Forrester was at this moment engaged in superintending the feeding
of a couple of fine young pigs, which had been bought in Tunbridge a few
days before. Her skirts were tucked up to her waist, and she had a large
hood over her head, which added to her grotesque appearance.

'Another lamb lost? I protest, Jenkyns, if you go on losing lambs after
this fashion you may find somebody else's lambs to lose, and leave mine
alone. A little more barleymeal in that trough, Ned--the porkers must be
well fed if I am to make a profit of 'em and not a loss.'

'Hearken, Madam Forrester,' Jenkyns said, 'the lamb is safe, but Mistress
Gifford is lying yonder more dead than alive. Ned, there! come and help me
to lift her home--and where's the boy, eh?'

'What boy?' Mrs Forrester asked sharply.

'Mistress Gifford's son,' Jenkyns said, 'his mother is crying out for him
amain, poor soul! She is in a bad case--you'd best look after her, there's
blood running down from a cut on her forehead. Here!' calling to one of the
women, 'here, if the Mistress won't come, you'd best do so--and bring a
pitcher of water with you, for she is like to swoon, by the looks of her.'

'You mind your own business, Amice,' Mistress Forrester said, as she
smoothed down her coarse homespun skirt, and settled the hood on her head.
'You bide where you are, and see the poultry are fed, as she who ought to
have fed 'em isn't here.'

'Nor ever will be again, mayhap,' said Jenkyns wrathfully. 'Come on, Ned,
it will take two to bear her home, poor thing. Don't let the boy see her
till we've washed her face--blood always scares children.'

'I daresay it's a scratch,' Mistress Forrester said, as she filled a pewter
pot with water, and followed the shepherd and Ned to the place where Mary
lay.

Even Mistress Forrester was moved to pity as she looked down on her
stepdaughter's face, and heard her murmur.

'Ambrose! my boy! He is stolen from me. Oh! for pity's sake, find him.'

'Stolen! stolen! not a bit of it,' Mistress Forrester said. 'I warrant he
is a-bed and asleep, for he is seldom up till sunrise.'

'He was with me,' Mary gasped, 'he was with me, when I fell. I was running
from _him_--and--he has stolen him from me.'

'Dear sake! who would care to steal a child? There, there, you are
light-headed. Drink a drop of water, and we'll get you home and a-bed. I'll
plaister the cut with lily leaves and vinegar, and I warrant you'll be well
in a trice.'

They moistened Mary's lips with water, and Jenkyns sprinkled her forehead;
and then Jenkyns, with Ned's help, raised Mary from the ground and carried
her towards the house.

A cry of suppressed agony told of the pain movement caused her, and
Mistress Forrester said,--

'Where's the pain, Mary? Sure you haven't broke your leg?'

But Mary could not reply. A deadly faintness almost deprived her of the
power of speaking.

As they passed through the yard the lamb, which Jenkyns had set down there
when he passed through, came trotting towards him, the long thick tail
vibrating like a pendulum as it bleated piteously for its mother.

Mary turned her large sorrowful eyes upon it, and whispered,--

'The lost lamb is found. Let it go to its mother. Oh! kind people,
find--find my boy, and bring him back to me--to me, his mother.'

By this time there was great excitement amongst the people employed on the
farm, and a knot of men and maidens were standing by the back door,
regardless of their mistress's anger that they should dare to idle away a
few minutes of the morning.

'Back to your work, you fools!' she said. 'Do you think to do any good by
staring like a parcel of idiots at Mistress Gifford. Ask the Lord to help
her to bear her pain, and go and bring her boy to her, Amice.'

But no one had seen the child that morning, and Amice declared he was not
in the house.

They carried Mary to her chamber, and laid her down on the low truckle bed,
the shepherd moving as gently as he could, and doing his best to prevent
her from suffering.

But placing her on the bed again wrung from her a bitter cry, and Jenkyns
said,--

'You must e'en get a surgeon to her, Mistress, for I believe she is sorely
hurt.'

'A surgeon! And, prithee, where am I to find one?'

'As luck will have it,' Jenkyns said, 'Master Burt from Tunbridge puts up
at the hostel every Monday in Penshurst.'

'Send Ned down into the village and fetch him, then,' Mistress Forrester
said, who was now really frightened at Mary's ghastly face, which was
convulsed with pain. 'Send quick! I can deal with the cut on her forehead,
but I can't set a broken limb.'

'Stop!' Mary cried, as Jenkyns was leaving the room to despatch Ned on his
errand. 'Stop!' Then with a great effort she raised herself to speak in an
audible voice. 'Hearken! My boy was stolen from me by a tall man in a long
black cloak. Search the country, search, and, oh! if you can, find him.'

This effort was too much for her, and as poor Jenkyns bent down to catch
the feeble halting words, Mary fell back in a deep swoon again, and was,
for another brief space, mercifully unconscious of both bodily and mental
agony. Hers was literally the stroke which, by the suddenness of the blow,
deadens the present sense of pain; that was to come later, and the loss of
her boy would bring with it the relief of tears when others had dried
theirs and accepted with calmness the inevitable.




CHAPTER VIII

DEFEAT

    'In one thing only failing of the best--
     That he was not as happy as the rest.'

    EDMUND SPENSER.


The court of Queen Elizabeth was well used to witness splendid shows and
passages-of-arms, masques, and other entertainments organised by the
noblemen chiefly, to whose houses--like Kenilworth--the Queen was often
pleased to make long visits.

The Queen always expected to be amused, and those who wished to court her
favour took care that no pains should be wanting on their part to please
her. Indeed, the courtiers vied with each other in their efforts to win the
greatest praise from their sovereign lady, who dearly liked to be
entertained in some novel manner.

This visit of the French Ambassadors to London, headed by Francis de
Bourbon, was considered a very important event. It was supposed that
Elizabeth was really in earnest about the marriage with the Duke of Anjou,
whose cause these Frenchmen had been commissioned by their Sovereign to
plead. They were also to have a careful eye to his interests in the treaty
they were to make with so shrewd a maiden lady as the Queen of England, who
was known always to have the great question of money prominently before her
in all her negotiations, matrimonial and otherwise.

The Earl of Arundel, Lord Windsor, Philip Sidney and Fulke Greville
undertook to impress the visitors with a magnificent display worthy of the
occasion which brought them to London.

In the tilt-yard at Whitehall, nearest to the Queen's windows, a 'Fortress
of Perfect Beauty' was erected, and the four knights were to win it by
force of arms.

All that the ingenuity of the artificers of the time could do was done. The
Fortress of Beauty was made of canvas stretched on wooden poles, gaily
painted with many quaint devices, and wreathed about with evergreens and
garlands, which were suspended from the roof. It was erected on an
artificial mound; and, as the day drew near, those who had to control the
admission of the hundreds who clamoured to be allowed to be spectators of
the tournament, were at their wit's end to gratify the aspirants for good
places.

The ladies about the Court were, of course, well provided with seats in the
temporary booths erected round the tilt-yard, and the Countess of Pembroke
and her following of gentlewomen in attendance occupied a prominent
position. Lady Mary Sidney and her youngest son, Thomas, were also present.
Robert was in his brother's train. Lady Rich, blazing with diamonds, was
the admired of many eyes--upon whose young, fair face might be seen the
trace of that unsatisfied longing and discontent with her lot, for which
the splendour of her jewels and richness of the lace of her embroidered
bodice were but a poor compensation. Amongst Lady Pembroke's attendants
there was one to whom all the show had the charm of novelty.

Lucy Forrester could scarcely believe that she was actually to be a witness
of all the magnificence of which she had dreamed on the hillside above
Penshurst. Her young heart throbbed with triumph as she saw Mistress
Ratcliffe and Dorothy vainly struggling to gain admittance at one of the
entrances, and at last, hustled and jostled, only allowed to stand on the
steps of one of the booths by Humphrey's help, who was awaiting the signal
from Philip's chief esquire to go and prepare his horse for the
passage-of-arms.

Lucy had gone through some troubles that morning with Mistress Crawley,
whom she did not find easy to please at any time, and who, seeing Lucy was
in favour with the Countess of Pembroke, did her best to prevent her from
taking too exalted a view of her own merits.

She had ordered that Lucy, as the youngest of the bower-women, should take
a back bench in the booth, where it was difficult to see or to be seen, but
Lady Pembroke had over-ruled this by saying,--

[Illustration: THE TILT YARD, WHITEHALL]

'There is room for all in the front row, good Crawley. Suffer Mistress
Lucy to come forward.'

And then Lucy, beaming with delight, had a full view of the fortress, and
found herself placed exactly opposite the window at which the Queen was to
sit with her favourites to watch the show.

'Tell me, I pray you, the name of that grand lady whose jewels are flashing
in the sunshine?'

Lucy said this to her companion, who bid her sit as close as she could, and
not squeeze her hoop, and take care not to lean over the edge of the booth
so as to obstruct her own view of the people who were rapidly filling up
the seats.

'And forsooth, Mistress Forrester, you must not speak in a loud voice. It's
country-bred manners to do so.'

Lucy pouted, but was presently consoled by a smile from Philip Sidney, who
came across the yard to exchange a word with his sister, and to ask if his
young brother was able to get a good view.

Lucy was much elated by that recognition, and her companion said in a low
voice,--

'You ask who yonder lady is? Watch, now, and I'll tell you.' For Philip
had, in returning, stopped before the booth where Lady Rich sat, and she
had bent forw

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/28616